Madness and Brilliance
by H. K. Wordsmith
Summary: Hermione Granger goes back in time to study a magic compass that has the Department of Mysteries puzzled- but instead comes to know the life and makings of Captain Jack, the origin of the Black Pearl, and forbidden love. (Author of ‘Of Time and Tide’)
1. New Horizons

Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter, Pirates of the Caribbean, nor any other texts I've referenced throughout.

Pints of butterbeer were heavy and overflowing when they were brought to the table. A white foam cascaded over the glasses and onto the stained oak surface where it settled into a mirage of bubbles. The air about the Leaky Cauldron was grey with musk, where only the warped glass windows were aglow with a golden dust. The dining room was captivated by a lunchtime buzz where Hermione Granger folded closed a recent copy of the Daily Prophet onto her lap and Harry and Ron took their places at the table where they met once a week.

There was plenty of space among them for idle chatter but Hermione gave in to a pressure that tugged at her from within, like the strings being pulled and pricked by the lone mandolin player in the far corner.

"I've a meeting with August and Elroy this afternoon." Hermione followed with a sip from her butterbeer to cool her nerves and the sweetness of the beer overcame any lingering taste of alcohol. "They liked my work on the Harrow Bones and I'm expecting a new project this afternoon… In fact," Hermione smiled widely before producing the periodical from her lap, "The article on the Harrow Bones made the second page."

"You still read that bloody ol' rag?" George Weasley swept the paper out from her hands before joining them at the table. "Oh, look, Granger did something smart. We're all baffled, really."

"Word has it she's going to be promoted." Harry announced to the table, knowing too well that she was too modest to do so herself; earning a blushed smile from her.

"That's brilliant, Hermione." Ron spoke through the turkey leg that occupied his mouth, his interest distant.

"But, really, are we surprised?" Harry joked, sitting up tiredly but with new energy, and touched his shaggy hair that nearly reached his eyebrows. It was time for a haircut, Hermione noted without comment.

Even five years after the war the Leaky Cauldron never was as full of life, despite all of the busy bodies that came and went throughout the day. There was no sense to the madness anymore- only a lingering hope that the future wouldn't seem so bleak. Hermione found her perfect escape from the madness working for the Department of Mysteries. She chased project after project as if searching for something to fill some void that, too, was long lost.

"I'm thinking about proposing to Lavender. I guess it's about time, anyway." Ron looked more pensive than ever, his expression contorted in worry and concern. "I mean, we're all about twenty three now. It's time… don't you think? Hermione, you're a girl…"

Harry met Hermione's eyes with a knowing glance, but Hermione shrouded her retired emotions with a mask of denial. Yet, her beverage suddenly flowed more bitter than sweet as it met her lips with new purpose. "Ron, Lavender has been hinting this to you for the last nine years. Well, she hasn't exactly been hinting it, really. She's brought it up at the family dinner every holiday now." Ron looked surprised. He couldn't read that Hermione hid old feelings the same way that he couldn't read Lavender, yet, this was nothing new.

"Yes, Ron, we think you should." Harry put it plainly. "Maybe Ginny can help you pick out a ring."

Hermione could no longer ignore that the server forgot to add the ginger to her butterbeer. She pushed the glass away from her, almost angry; citing a loss of appetite when Harry asked about it. For some reason, she couldn't remove her eyes from the rim of the glass where her lips had parted the foam.

The sensation of Harry's hand on her arm brought her back to reality and she understood everything clearly except for her sight that was beginning to blur with emotion, but she blinked away the evidence and laughed along with her group about something she knew nothing about. A wise woman, she bargained reason into her emotions.

"I'd better go." She stood from the table, retrieving her briefcase. "Can't keep the Ministry waiting."

"Right. Oh, and," Harry wiped his face with a napkin. "Hermione, Ginny wants to know if you can make plans with her Wednesday nights. I don't know, some girl thing, maybe."

"Of course, Harry. Although, my newest case might keep me a bit preoccupied. I still don't know what it could be."

"Bye, 'Mione." Ron bid her farewell and George waved her off before resuming their bids for an upcoming quidditch match.

She tossed her scarf over her shoulder and left the Leaky Cauldron in a hurry. Flurries of snow descended from the atmosphere above the pub and stuck to her cheeks, warming into small puddles upon impact and disguising the small tear that had evaded her control. This happened every time she saw Ron and she was beginning to believe that she was going mad. She wiped the tear with her sleeve and shook her head, dissuading the depressive thoughts that threatened to loom.

"Get it together, 'Mione."

She approached her car that was parked up the cobblestone street, the same black Audi model that her mum once drove, pressing the button on the master key to merit a 'beep' that would wake the headlights and disarm the cardoors.

"Hermione!" A voice that called from up the corner was now behind her. It was Ron. He caught up to her, meeting her on the sidewalk where the snow began to gather.

He sighed heavily from exasperation before speaking, shoving his hands into the shallow pockets of his flannel jacket nervously. No, no. He was just cold. "Hermione, I'm sorry." She searched his eyes for understanding, noting whether his pupils dilated with either love or grief, but they stayed shrunken and unphased. Something within her begged for him to say the words that she had waited her entire life to hear from him. "About what happened back there," He put his gloved hands on her arms and looked into her eyes. "I want you to come with Ginny and me to pick out the ring."

She stood there, mouth agape, looking up at the grey skies that reflected silver in the tears she successfully repressed and shook her head in dismay. "Thank you, Ronald." She turned to open her car door, but stopped halfway when Ron continued. The handle was cold to the touch but she didn't pull it to open the door. Instead, she stood there, holding the cold chrome in her palm as sensory escape from the pain of the moment.

"'Mione, can I ask you something?"

She turned to meet him patiently, letting go.

"Why do you always use muggle stuff?" He motioned toward her car disapprovingly as she stood with the door open. She lowered her head.

"I miss my family, Ronald." She turned to look at him, her expression a somber one.

"I don't understand."

"I know." She accepted, stepping into the car and closing the door on him.

"Miss Granger," Her thoughts were torn away from her by the secretary, "Mr. August and Mr. Elroy will see you now."

She stood and wiped off her pants, just to be sure her lunch hadn't fallen on them even though she had already checked three times. The head office of the Department of Mysteries was bright, yet decorated with black tiles like much of the rest of the Ministry. Drapes clung to the walls and framed a large, ornate desk in the center of the room where two men waited for her: Dean August and Tervis Elroy. Dean, she figured, was the younger man, clad in a black pinstripe suit with hair greased back. He looked positively Gatsby. Tervis Elroy, on the other hand, was the eldest.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger."

She did.

"Your work studying the Harrow Bones of the Amazon is remarkable…. The case involving the H.M.R. corporation was a success and, even the mutant drabbles from Moscow were well addressed. Not to mention, your academics at the University of Cambridge are unparalleled. If I may say so, it is an uncommon choice to attend university for a magical being, but it suits you well, Miss Granger. I see you studied... history and ancient language, yes?. No doubt helpful knowledge in your line of work as an Unspeakable..."

"Yes, sir. I studied with emphasis on human anthropology, both muggle and magical." Hermione sat beaming as the men complimented her resume. Her fingers nervously intertwined themselves with one another as she held onto her briefcase. The eldest man, Tervis Elroy had been looking over her report on the Harrow Bones before he set the folder down to view Hermione.

"You have demonstrated yourself well and, we agree, are interested in offering you one of the Department's newest cases." Said Dean August. He carried an object over and set it on the table between them and Hermione. It was a small, black box with a simple gold detail. "It was found by muggles, washed ashore in London, and wound up in Borgin and Burke's shop last week. When we were able to get a hold of it, we found that it contains a magical quality that we know little about."

"Go ahead and open it, miss Granger." Mr. Elroy urged with his trembling elderliness.

She reached over the table and held it, inspected it, and opened the gold latch on the side to find it was, curious enough, a compass. It was light in weight and smelled of sea salt and aged wood. She watched as the red dial spun endlessly on its bearings.

Her brow furrowed in confusion before her eyes returned to meet those of her elders. "A compass, sir?"

"Precisely. What does it point to?" Dean August prodded.

"At the moment, the needle won't settle. I cannot make any assumptions regarding what it points to, if anything, sir." She returned it to the table delicately.

Tervis nodded affirmingly slow to Dean. "It seems so… Hermione Granger, we've chosen you for this task, should you accept it, because we would like for you to study this compass. Our limited studies have found its aged centuries, and it's most famous owner, we understand, is a ship's captain from the eighteenth-century Caribbean. We would like for you to study this compass and its owner, and any other aspects you find relevant to this task. We don't know whether he is of magical or muggle being. The legends and lore that this person is associated with are magical in nature, thus the possibility is there."

The man continued, "Should you turn down this assignment, we-"

"I'll do it." The new assignment to occupy her time rather than thoughts of Ron's future engagement seemed unequivocally opportune. Hermione pressed her lips together firmly before continuing her interruption, calculating. "May I see the data you've collected?"

The men glanced at one another with expressions of worry. "You see," one began, "we don't have much data on this object. We know a few of its owners by legend, but this is all. We can give you some paperwork on its owner but, it seems, much of your studies will need to be conducted in the past."

Dean stroked his chin in thought before standing up once more, retrieving a large box and handing it to her. Upon opening it, she found a dress inside. "We had it made for you. You're welcome to transfigure it, should you desire change. We took into account the customs of the era, implementing only the visual charm of a corset, thus it should cause you no real distress. The same with the shoes. They look dreadfully painful, but they are charmed comfortably."

"Thank you, sir." Hermione expressed her appreciation.

Tervis Elroy stood from his chair in order to add gravity to his next statement. "Something I'd like to bring to your awareness is the sensitivity of the time... The magical community of the early eighteenth century did not have the knowledge and power that it does now. As I'm sure you're aware, dark magic existed mostly undiscovered and ungoverned. You must be safe. As an Unspeakable, you are permitted access to all magic that you deem necessary and within reason. But be cautious, miss Granger..."

Hermione took a moment to digest this.

Dean continued, "Lastly, here is a journal. Please take note of your findings regularly, even when there is little to report. Tell us as much as you can about this compass and it's owner, and anything more you discover relevant. Of course, the entirety of this venture must be maintained with utmost confidentiality."

She accepted a file from them with the readied files for her to study. "Thank you, sirs."

Tervis began to speak, lifting his hand slowly as if to make a new motion. "One last thing. Another reason we have chosen you, Miss Granger," he began, beard quivering as he spoke, "is because we know you have a device capable of time manipulation. We will expect you use this. However, we also expect you to adhere to the laws of responsible time travel. You've never violated this rule before. I expect it won't be an issue." He lowered his face expectantly, meeting her gaze with raised eyebrows.

"You can count on me, sir."


	2. Of Time and Tide

Hermione petted Crookshanks while sipping wine at her London flat, files spread across her lap, on the couch cushion beside her and the table in front of her. She furrowed her brow attempting to make out the centuries-old handwriting on centuries-old parchment that provided her with understanding of the legends of this compass and it's known owners. The most prominent was Captain Jack Sparrow. He had the most stories and they were incredible, though, Hermione shrugged them off as muggle folklore. There was a drawing included in the documents- a wanted poster, really. Hermione noted the slim face, tanned skin, facial hair and dreads.

Sifting through more pages, she sought anything with a date; something that she could pinpoint, maybe a time and location where she could find him. Space and time can be difficult and hazardous to navigate, even with the help of magic. She found something that stood out to her: A page with the markings of the familiar and famous logo of the East India Trading Company. She read over the papers that appeared to be a contract for the Captain, Jack Sparrow, an employed privateer. Hermione was elated to find that the documents were dated and signed by a man named Cutler Beckett. She now had her time, destination, and names to search for. The markings dated the contract October 13th, 1716, Kingston, Jamaica.

That night, with eager energy, Hermione contemplated what awaited while packing her beaded bag. She included the necessities: her wand, polyjuice, dittany, a few books of leisure, fizzing whizbees, and other essentials, of course. She set down her beaded bag momentarily when a photo of her family caught her eye. Hermione made her way over to the photo and liberated the frame from its spot on the shelf. She studied her parents' faces glowing sunkissed from their Caribbean vacation. Hermione stifled a laugh at her younger self who was holding her beach towel overhead to block the sunlight, her ten-year old face twisted in disapproval. Her attention was drawn to a drop of liquid that shimmered silver against the glass, and she wiped it off quickly with her sleeve. She missed her parents often. Maybe after this project she would try to find them.

Time was reduced to abstraction as the midnight chime echoed from her mother's old clock while Hermione stayed up late pacing her room and reading aloud to Crookshanks the documented stories of the life of Captain Jack Sparrow. She couldn't sleep with all of the curiosities that plagued her. Would her study be great? Would it be dangerous? She wasn't entirely sure what to expect. Hermione sat heavily on her bed and stared at the Time Turner that waited on her night stand, overwhelmed with possibilities. If things became dangerous, she couldn't abandon her mission. But, in truth, she was thankful to have adventures of her own; a welcome challenge. Hermione turned her gaze to come face to face with Crookshanks before petting her cat thoughtfully. It arched it's back as her hand traveled from between its ears to the base of its tail.

The stories about the captain seemed exaggerated to her. He was a muggle, after all, and it seemed improbable that a muggle could possibly redeem himself from curses, slay the kraken, defeat the legendary Davy Jones, discover the Fountain of Youth and the Trident of Poseidon. If the stories were true, she should certainly have learned of him in Muggle Studies or even during her muggle summer schooling. Her thoughts became long and pensive, drifting away from her task and toward darkness as Crookshanks snuggled close and purred the both of them to sleep.

The metaphysical and physical were discombobulated, twisted, and reunited as Hermione stumbled gracelessly onto an empty beach after having travelled centuries through time and apparated halfway across the world in a single morning. Her head was reeling and her stomach threatened to expel all that she'd eaten, which wasn't much. She wobbled dizzily before landing in the sand with a resounding thud. In truth, this felt like a terrible hangover. She grabbed her head as if to stop it from spinning.

She sat in the sand for a moment to regain her strength, taking this time to tuck her time turner safely into the bosom of her dress. She patted her hidden pockets for her beaded bag and the compass, and secured her wand up her sleeve. After locating each, Hermione squinted out at the bright ocean in front of her with curiosity. It was beautiful: an unruly blue blanket that lay outstretched at her feet, decorated with the image of the big, bright sky overhead.

A pair of seagulls squawked by, drawing her attention to the landscape behind her: A vast jungle with palm trees up high and vibrant ferns exceeding her own height, and behind that were towering mountains over which wisps of fog crept down toward her. It was so still, so peaceful. Hermione relished the feeling of the sea breeze against her hair and the tamed sun that stirred behind that morning fog. A bell chimed in the distance, alerting her to the harbour that rested at the end of the beach; perhaps a thirty or forty minute walk away where tall ships waded close to Kingston's shore.

Hermione mustered some extra energy to dust the sand off of her dress before making her way toward Kingston, Jamaica. According to the files she read, Captain Sparrow should make port that November day and meet with Cutler Beckett, Director of West African Imports and Exports of the East India Company. Of course, she had triple checked that she had the date right before she set her time turner.

In the early gray light flies began to land on her- they touched her face and she brushed them away and away they flew toward the jungle brush or the mudwalled homes made of reeds and clay where chickens stepped about and clucked and scratched. The flies rose and settled back on a hanging slaughtered pig in a butcher's window. Her attention was then drawn away by a cart that passed, drawn by a horse but driven by a slave boy who was owned by the man inside the cart. Here she stopped and averted her eyes at the sight that roiled her. Of course she knew this part of history but she never could prepare herself enough for its reality.

She moved on towards daylight. She followed the cobblestone road of Harbour Street toward the wharf where masts towered over red-tiled rooftops and palm trees and smoke that rose from the tropical architecture buildings that led her way through town. The docks were lined with stacked limestone rock, discolored grey with sea wear, that lead her way through the greenery and toward a harbour office marked with the unmistakable logo of the East India Company. She entered after taking a deep, preparatory breath. Inside the building, she stuck out like a sore thumb: there were no women, save for an occasional maid. In fact, it was mostly sailors and captains by the looks of it, some adorned in navy blue or red suits with large and atrocious hats. Some were carrying trunks, some barrels, or cartons of various fruits to be traded.

"Are you lost?" One of the men eyed her quizzically, turning his head like a bird.

"I'm looking for Cutler Beckett's office." Hermione responded simply. Maybe the man could help her.

"Actually, the maid's room is off the parlor." The man mocked while gesturing toward a nearby room, meriting a laugh from his company.

Hermione shrugged him off and continued her search on her own. She hadn't looked far when she heard a man greet "Mr. Beckett" in a nearby room, marked by set of open doors that signified the head office. Once the greeter left, Hermione saw her opportunity to enter. At the end of the room, a man sat quaint and undisturbed at his desk, surrounded by maps, parchment, and ornate furniture. Like the mahogany, his hair was brown and tied back with a bow. He seemed important, scribing onto some loose paper with a great big quill, undistracted by the woman who welcomed herself into his room. He stretched out his hand to meet the ink well when he finally noticed Hermione in his peripheral vision. The man paid little attention to her before looking up to meet her eyes with quizzical patience. "Miss…?"

"Miss Granger, sir... You must be Mister Beckett." Hermione nodded, taking the liberty to approach his desk now that she had been acknowledged.

"How may I assist you, Miss Granger?" His eyes were attentive and searching, reading her for any familiarity. He didn't know of any Grangers in town or otherwise.

She folded her arms over her lap, momentarily second-guessing her plans before returning to her normal, bright and confident visage. "I'm looking for passage, sir. I'm a writer. I would like to offer you payment for passage on board a ship." Hermione bit her lip. The plan didn't seem so clever, once she heard it executed. It sounded great in her head, but now her head was overwhelmed by the sound of her immeasurable heartbeat.

The man eyed her for a long moment, bewildered by the extraordinary request. A woman? A writer? Who wants passage? A folly, surely. He concentrated, chewing on his lip this before regarding her patiently. "Miss Granger, I'm not certain any of my merchant trading vessels will be welcoming of a woman- erm- writer. I guarantee you, mi'lady, a month at sea will grant you little literary reward… You're not working for an abolitionist paper, are you?"

"Um, no, sir."

"Good." He resumed scribing. Another agonizingly long minute passed in which she shared sympathy with the anxious, squeaking gulls outside.

"Sir," Hermione was persistent, "I'm willing to offer you one hundred shillings for my safe passage."

He paused, appreciating her diligence, before refusing her again, his eyes not leaving his work. "I admire your interest, however, even if I approved of your passage the lodgings aboard a merchant vessel offers very little comfort for a woman. What gentleman can I be if I permit a woman to endure such conditions? I must decline."

"One hundred and fifty shillings, then." Hermione dropped a satchel of coins onto the man's desk, at which the man leaned back in amusement at her perseverance. She reminded him of himself as a kid. He smiled at the memories this brought him as he drummed on his desk, calculating.

"I have a captain visiting me this afternoon. I'll discuss this arrangement with him." Beckett sat up and retrieved a bushel of papers from atop a cabinet, tossing them promptly onto his desk with a beat. "I have a proposition for him: a larger ship that should have accommodation for you. I expect you can wait here until he and I have deliberated your request. I make no guarantees."

Hermione agreed to Beckett's proposal, opting to wait in the nearby parlor with a kettle of tea and a navigational textbook she had found on a nearby dresser. She had a short opportunity to find the captain and she could not allow it to slip by her.


	3. Fair Wind

Skilled sailors unfastened lines from polished cleats and heaved, shifting to harness the wind with the pearl-white canvases that now shrouded the port side at ten o'clock in shadow. They carried westward against the wind, leaving the morning sun behind them where colours of the British East India Company pointed toward the ship's churning wake.

Ahead, another cloudless day led them toward crystalline waters that encased the jewels of sea life, a most natural display where corals glowed ruby red, sapphire beads of fish trailed after one another, and emerald kelp sashes swayed in the current. Yet, the face of that sea was as barren and desolate as the sahara, glittering sharp like diamonds was the burning gaze of the sun's silver reflection, among bright turquoise dunes that cascaded into opal whitecaps with precise patterns- the pulsebeat of the earth: magnificent and dangerous.

Not so fortunate is the land, more valuable than jewels or stones, where the Caribbean was seized and color coded, mere spots on a map of the colonial powers; where freedom is scarce and abused. There are the ever-Enlightened Westerners who sail across the celestial gaze to take on the New World and to find God in which death follows, and sailors who labor in it's judgement, for better or worse, in the everchanging weather that tells of the divine uniformity of nature and you may, therefore, find proof for or against His existence. You may see a symbol, a sign, a fact, a thing without meaning or a meaning which includes all things.

For Jack Sparrow, the ocean was the obvious choice. The East India Company seemed a smart option, really. It wasn't pirating, after all. Jack almost smiled at the memory of his father slapping him with a fish for taking some of the family bounty.

"Bugger", Jack mumbled in his sleep, then jolting awake at the memory of being whacked upside the head. He sat up drearily, holding his head by the bandana, before opening his eyes in recognition of his shadow that lay outstretched on the bedsheets before him. He had overslept!

"Oh. Bugger!" Captain Jack Sparrow leapt from the comforts of bed and fumbled to retrieve his effects. He tied his vest on inside out, threw his strap over top, set his tricorn hat on sideways, and left his boots noticeably wonky as he rushed from his cabin and onto the deck. The soles of his shoes rested at the sides of his feet, causing him to fumble momentarily before righting himself against the painted banister; twisting each foot into its boot properly. He was beginning to wonder whether or not they were on the right feet. The crew was already well at work and his first mate was stationed calmly at the helm. Thank pinnacles, Jack regarded. He made his way to the upper deck, his navy blue coattails prancing in a gale of morning wind.

"Morning, Captain." The first mate greeted, opting to overlook the captain's habitual tardiness.

"Allo, Joshamee." Jack regarded, asserting himself at the helm.

"Do we 'ave a heading, sir? The Company should like to hear back from us soon, I figure it. Not sure Beckett and his lot would be pleased to learn of our extra day of English debauchery." Joshamee Gibbs huffed at the memory of their unscheduled playday. London had a few of the best brothels in Europe, Jack recalled with a smirk.

"In due course…" Jack patted his pockets for his trusty magic compass, grin glued in place, "We should reach Kingston today." Jack spun around, not seeing that compass on his person. He tilted his head down toward his missing device with what was now a deep frown.

"What's the matter?" Gibbs grumbled, knowing the captain's behavior all too well.

"Ah, I seem to have forgotten my compass below…" Jack's voice caught in a pitch of nervousness, motioning for Gibbs to resume his place at the helm, "I shall return."

Jack made haste back to his quarters, pushing past a sailor along the way. Entering his room, he searched high and low, turning out his drawers and searching between the scrolls of maps that occupied his shelves. With every overturned pillow and drawer and pocket where he did not find his compass, his fear heightened. He himself stripped down and searched, well, everywhere for his precious device. He'd have turned the Fair Wind upside down if he could.

Jack stopped on his bed, panting after having thrown all of his pillows onto the floorboards. He urged himself to think patiently, recalling the events from the night before. He resumed a standing position and quite literally retraced his steps around his quarters, scanning the room thoroughly from his cluttered bookshelves to a dusty writing desk. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi…" his strut ended when he reached the end of his immediate memory. "Damned tosser," he berated himself, slumping his shoulders in defeat. It was simply gone. Someone must've taken it. Jack's eyes narrowed and he leapt to his feet in epiphany.

"GIBBS!" Jack stalked back up to the helm and where his arms would swing in natural opposition to one another, they were firm and unyielding.

"Aye, Captain," Gibbs approached him worriedly, following Jack up to the top deck.

Jack began in a whisper: "Uh, Joshamee, it seems as though my trusty compass is missing. Neigh, taken, perhaps?"

Gibbs looked disappointed. "Sir, I can't imagine any amongst the crew would take your compass. No one else knows of its ability, I'm certain of it."

Jack's expression was a grim one. "We'll make landfall for more reason that I had expected. It seems I am in need of a new, erm, compass." A lump formed in this throat as he found his words became more difficult to speak.

Gibbs made to reply but decided to refrain from furthering the captain's ire with hollow words of assurance.


	4. The Admiral’s Inn

The tea kettle had grown cold by the time Captain Jack Sparrow arrived. She woke when a maid- no, an enslaved woman, had approached to offer her a warm kettle. Hermione didn't even realize she was nodding off until she felt the suddenness of a wall meet the back of her head, which jolted her awake in her chair.

"Sorry to give you a fright, miss." The woman said. "Would you like your tea to be reheated?"

It was with sheer luck Hermione recognized the captain who had entered and now walked into the room behind the maid. Hermione craned her head around to see him. "No, thank you, ma'am." She offered the woman a warm smile before returning her undivided attention to the captain who was strutting about the center of the room.

He took off his hat and the floorboards creaked under his boots when he walked and the air in the room suddenly stilled for the first time since she'd arrived. He immediately stood apart from the other captains and sailors she had seen come and go throughout the day. His hair was not tied back by a ponytail but a braid, and adorned with a bead or two. Souvenirs. His face was mostly clean shaven and complemented by a red patterned neckscarf. His coat was a dark grey and a casual blouse underneath revealed tanned skin, unlike the pale and distinctly-European men who occupied the room. Hermione knew this had to be the captain she was looking for. Her heart leaped when he looked at her in passing. No, no. It was the adrenaline of the moment. That was it. She forced herself to appear attentive to the book in her lap when his bright, dark eyes scanned about the room and landed on her momentarily. She took a sip of tea and watched over the rim of the teacup as the captain made his way into Beckett's office. The door shut behind him.

Merlin. Hermione set down the cup of tea and frowned in frustration. This derailed her plan to eavesdrop through the open door. Instead, she stood from her chair and walked over to a bookcase that neighbored the office door. She put back the nautical textbook and picked up another, scanning its contents without reading a word. Instead, she stretched her attention to the voices that mumbled in the room beside her.

"Captain Sparrow, I've been expecting you for at least a day or two now." Spoke the familiar, stern voice of Cutler Beckett.

"We were delayed by the tropical storm that passed earlier this week, sir." The other man, the captain, spoke. She memorized his voice, taking into account his rather gruff but energetic sound.

"I'd figured as much." Beckett spoke with a huff, keeping his eyes on a few pages that he had begun shuffling through. He retrieved one from the middle of the stack. "In your absence, the Company has chosen to take on a new area of trade. It will be great for business and new entrepreneurs such as yourself." He set aside the chosen parchment and returned the others to a drawer. "Considering your expertise, Jack, I'd like to offer you a promotion. I imagine that importing fruits has grown old and uninteresting to you." Beckett paused but the Captain did not reply. Beckett continued. "I have a larger ship, one of my very own that has been modified for this improved purpose. The Wicked Wench. She is an older ship, but she is perhaps the fastest of her kind, sturdy, and reliable. If I contract you for delivering this new cargo, I expect you will handle her with great care."

"Aye- Of course, sir." The sound of his excitement broke through his professionalism.

"Great." Beckett seemed pleased, grabbing his feathered quill from the inkwell and carefully adding his signature to the bottom of the page. "With such speed, I imagine that your trips may be shorter in length than your last. We will provide you with month's rations."

The captain's interest shifted. "Where will she be sailing to... exactly?"

"A small port town off the west coast of Africa. The Belgian merchant there, Mr. Kurtz, will supply us with one hundred-"

"No." The Captain spoke sharply and quickly. "People aren't cargo." Hermione's attention deepened when she finally realized the task that the captain was being contracted to do. How had she overlooked this when read the file? Hermione shook away her thoughts as she resumed listening to the captain speak, "… I'll even deliver gunpowder, dangerous as that may be, but I will not deliver slaves, sir." With the shift in tone of the captain's voice, Hermione's concerns were heightened.

"Jack, you have been a good and reliable employee. However, this is the direction that the Company has chosen to take."

"I apologize, sir, but this is an offer I must decline."

There was a stern silence before Beckett continued. "If you refuse my offer, I will relinquish you of your duties and you'll find that no other privateer will hire you." There was another silence as Jack was caught in deep contemplation. "The circumstances are regrettable for you but, all the same, undeniable." Beckett's voice kept its emotionlessness; as if each syllable was devoid of any human influence.

A weight fell heavy on Hermione's shoulders as she realized the intensity of the situation she had found herself in. There was no way she could tolerate being on a slave ship. Yet, Hermione reminded herself, she could not meddle with time: she couldn't change the events that will occur without altering time; and she certainly could not abandon her case. Hermione forced herself to accept the fact that she was only an observer.

"Jack," Hermione heard Beckett say as the men drew closer to the door where she stood listening. She backed away quickly, fearing they'd run into her. Just as she stepped aside, the door opened. "Jack, you cannot walk away from this. I'll see that you never sail again. My father is the director of these affairs for all the colonies and will be sure that you are the most unhirable man in the West Indies."

The captain stopped at the door, looking down at his boots in surrender before turning his gaze back to Beckett. "There's more to life than profit, mate." The captain seemed to lose his formality in his distress.

"I have a long line of captains waiting eagerly to take your ship, Sparrow. Is this really what you want?" Beckett was nearly whispering at this point, leaning in rather close as he spoke.

Sparrow returned Beckett's gaze with a somber one before giving up. "Alright."

Beckett held up the papers for the captain to view. "All I need is your signature, Jack." Beckett's voice was smooth and taunting. Jack finally signed them and made to leave. "Oh, and Jack," Jack spun around, his expression dark and impatient, "the young lady, there, will be joining you. Do give her fine quarter."

Hermione was not at all sure what to expect from the distraught captain, but was left disappointed when he paid her no attention at all and walked right past her. Hermione jogged to catch up with him on his way out, noting the way his anger loomed in an unmeasured darkness about his eyes.

"Captain Sparrow!" She exclaimed, chasing him outside of the building. He shut the door in her face on her way out, paying her no mind. Hermione fumbled to open the door before jogging up to him from behind, cursing the humidity as she placed her hand on his shoulder in desperation. This was her only opportunity to join him and she couldn't falter.

He quickly turned to face her, his expression gelid, causing her to step back in surprise.

"Truly a pity to part with you so soon, darling, but I'm in need of a tall drink. And, you see, The Admiral's Inn is no place for a fine gentlewoman such as yourself." He spoke quickly, looking her up and down, as if to point out her delicateness. The captain turned on his heel, continuing toward town. He didn't expect her to follow after his shrewd gesture but, even to her own surprise, she did.

"Captain," Hermione struggled to keep up with him. He eventually deflated and turned to meet her patiently. "I must insist that I join you-"

"Miss, you're a fine woman, but I often prefer to get to know a lass as beautiful as you before I take her to a tavern." He paused, the muscles on his face faltering in recognizing an object that was tied at her side. "Where in Sam Hill did you get that?"

Hermione grabbed at the compass before he could take it. A flaw in an otherwise perfect plan. "I… found it." Hermione lied, stumbling around her mental repertoire for a quick and soluble story.

"Where?" His gaze was concentrated on her like beacons searching for a ship in a storm. His eyes were dark, abysmal pools that might have pulled her deep within.

"By the docks." Hermione looked in that direction so as to avoid his piercing gaze. She wasn't always a convincing liar, but today seemed to be an exception. He bought it, his shoulders settling down again, but his stance was still an uneasy one. Hermione could tell that he was very attached to this compass. How had he lost his? She assumed that the compass could only exist in a single plane of time and space, something she reminded herself to note in her first report. Her thoughts were disrupted when the Captain was speaking to her, his arms waving in flamboyant gestures.

"Regardless... that there is mine love, if you'll be so kind as to hand it over..." He reached toward it with determination but she spun away from him just as quickly.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but you must oblige me something first." She bit her lip cleverly. "A patient conversation with me at the Inn would suffice." While this wasn't at all according to plan, but Hermione decided that this worked in her favour.

He frowned, bested. "Alright then, miss. But, I don't owe you a pint. Do we have an accord?"

They arrived at the Admiral's Inn as the sun began its initial descent from the late-day sky. Hermione, again, was the only woman present. Most of the men were dressed extravagantly or appeared to be decorated Captains, but acted like drunken sailors- yelling over one another about politics or dull gossip.

"Master Gibbs," Captain Jack called to his first mate, "this is- erm…"

"Hermione Granger." Hermione introduced herself, extending her hand to the gentleman in front of her. The man held a pint in one hand while the other met hers without much hesitation. Mr. Gibbs seemed friendly enough. His face was round and aging, his skin tan and freckled from years of sunlight. The man's beard was greying and straight, touching the collar of his navy blue shirt.

"Joshamee Gibbs. First mate."

Another man approached them in order to introduce himself. "Billy. Billy Turner."

He was very personable. "It's good to meet you, Billy."

She watched with some weariness as the captain spoke in a hushed tone and pulled Billy aside.

"Billy," Jack put his arm around his old friend. "If I buy you a beverage, would you mind so terribly to entertain… our guest… while I converse with dear Mr. Gibbs?"

"Alright, Jack, but what should we talk about?"

"Oh, no worries there... That one never stops talking."

Gibbs and Jack approached a table by the roaring fireplace that would muffle their discourse and took their seats.

"Who is she? A supervisor?"

"Worse, I'm afraid." Jack scratched his chin, observing her from a distance with a pensive grimace. "An auditor, or something. She said she was a writer, but I rather doubt it."

"Who would be sending an auditor? For fruit shipments for that matter?" Gibbs raised his eyebrows dramatically. "Ye don't suppose he's on to us about our extra day in London?"

"Beckett, surely, and on the note of bad news and notions, we've been recontracted."

"Recontracted?" Gibbs was flabbergasted. "To do what, pray tell?"

Jack raised his hands to count the developments on his fingers. "First, we've been reassigned to crew one of Beckett's own ships, the Wicked Wench. We're expected to manage the same number of hands on this much larger ship. Second, we've been involuntarily contracted to use said larger ship to deliver slaves out of Africa. And third, we leave tomorrow."

Gibbs' eyebrows seemed to disappear into his hairline. He was as silent as the grave, chewing on his lip in aggravated thought before blurting out. "Ye can't be serious, Cap'n! This is madness."

Jack signaled with a quick gesture for the bartender to bring beer to their table.

"I assure you, Gibbs, I'm quite serious."

"What do you suppose the girl has to do with that? What does Beckett have in mind, putting us through such rot? I say this'll be a grave mistake, through and through."

"Beckett intends for us to suffer through, and I say we do. And, the way I figure it, if we can pass some audit this once then my credibility will never be in question again."

"S'long as you do right by us, cap'n." Gibbs raised his glass in a toast to his captain. "To the Wicked Wench, then."

"Ahem." Hermione interrupted their exchange. "Captain, per our agreement, I believe you owe me a conversation."

Jack rolled his eyes with expert precision and shooed off his first mate, then gestured for her to take a seat in Gibbs' chair. "What can I do you for? What is this all about, really?" Jack sat back carelessly, putting his booted feet on the table to express to her his genuine disinterest. "With your interest in my compass, I gather that you're here to investigate my unconventional methods. I promise you, however, whatever kind of audit you are performing will be fruitless."

Hermione raised a quizzical brow at his accusation. "Excuse me, you think I'm here to audit you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, you're a 'writer'." He raised and bent two fingers in the air mockingly. "Writing reports on my every move as captain. Listen, Beckett doesn't need to send spies to figure out how I'm fast and efficient. If my methods are under your examination then you ought to save yourself the trouble and simply quiz me now. I'm an open book." He challenged, taking a sip of his beer with darkened eyes.

"Captain," She shook her head in disbelief, completely bewildered by his behavior. "By writer, I meant that I'm a novelist."

"Fat chance, mi'lady." He sat forward on the table now, intimidating. "You are working for Beckett, posing as a writer. What I need from you now, if you are to be sailing with me and my crew for the next month or two, is honesty. So, tell me, love. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Alright, then. I'll tell you the truth." She asserted herself. "I met Beckett for the first time this morning. I paid him fairly to join a merchant crew- which only happens to be yours. I'm looking for inspiration as a novelist, you see, and with the bustling markets of the caribbean, there is much of the subject to be told in England."

Jack's lip twitched, not seeing any falsehoods in her well-versed narrative for him to argue around.

"Alright, miss. But no funny business. Aye? And, do practice diligence. I can't have any liabilities aboard that might afford me any future audits." He finished his pint and got up from the table for another. The drinks that followed each served a threefold purpose: the first was to calm him from anger of his new assignment, the second was to diffuse about the new responsibility of having a woman aboard, and the third was to forget how much he liked her already.


	5. The Wicked Wench

Vivid shades of greens, blues, and yellows churned and swirled against the ornate wooden ship as it cut through the waves and she knew she was going to be sick-again. Hermione stood at the edge of the deck and leaned against the polished white railing, holding her head up by the temples and begging and pleading that her stomach withhold her last meal. Her skin was paler than ever with a tinge of grey-green gracing the space between her cheekbones and jawline. Earlier her cheeks were red from embarrassment; what with her being the only one aboard who was casting the contents of their stomach over the side of the ship. Hermione's senses were both dull and reeling, and she barely noticed the hand that placed itself upon her shoulder. Her eyes followed the hand back to meet the face of its sympathetic owner; his face shaped by an amused but understanding smile.

"You'd feel better if you made your way below deck," Billy advised, moving his hand from her shoulder to rest below his yellow bandana in order to shield his eyes from the burning sunlight, "the ship's movements are most subtle there."

"I doubt anything can help me now." Hermione groaned as her stomach lurched, but nothing came up. It had to be empty by now, right? She'd been sea sick all day. She turned around and sat on the light brown wood of the deck, against the railing where the cool shade of the sail cast its midday shadow over her. In truth, she wasn't accustomed to the sunlight, either. Clouds and rain were England's signature; her natural habitat. The sun made her hot and tired, both painful additions to her illness. She shut her eyes tightly, a sign she had given up all hope of ever feeling well again. A bead of sweat graced her forehead: a monument to her strain.

Billy knelt down to sit beside her and attempted to distract her with conversation. "Can I tell you something?" He prompted, coming to sit down beside her "You remind me of someone I love."

This caught her attention. "How so?" She asked, cradling her abdomen before shutting her eyes to drown out another sudden urge to vomit.

"I have a wife and son back home, in North Carolina. I'm here as a privateer, making my fortune, in hopes my son might one day attend a college." Billy folded his arms over his knees as he sat squinting up at the sun in thought. "I miss them every day."

"I understand." Hermione replied, somewhat distant, thinking of her own parents and friends back home.

"My son is waiting for me. He should be eight years, soon enough. My, do I feel aged." Billy smiled nostalgically, eyeing the detail in the wooden grains on the deck while he recounted his years away from home. "It's been quite some time since I saw him last." All remnants of a smile faded away. "I hope I can set up a great life for him. Not one like my own."

"What's his name? Your son?" She asked, a few strands of hair catching in a gale of wind and tossing about. She held up her hand to the side of her face to shield the wind that fought for her attention.

"William… A family name."

"One moment, please." Hermione felt a rush of illness return and she moved her body, quickly, to face the railing again, staying seated. When the feeling passed, she rested her forehead against the rail and shut her eyes, feeling the Wicked Wench as it bobbed up and down against the waves without any sign of mercy to come. She reopened her eyes and blearily observed the hills of Jamaica shrinking further into the horizon. "Billy, what else can you suggest for seasickness?"

He paused, thinking. "You can always go rest in the captain's bed. I don't imagine the hammocks below deck will be very accommodating for you."

Her eyes widened. She hadn't even considered her sleeping arrangement yet. She groaned audibly in disapproval, but considered it. At this point, she would consider anything. "You think he wouldn't mind?"

Billy and Hermione both turned to see the captain occupied at the helm, talking to his first mate. Billy shook his head. "No, you should be fine. I imagine Jack wouldn't mind." They observed the Captain as he wrestled with his spyglass, struggling to pry it open.

"How long have you known him? He's a bit of a character, it seems." Hermione observed him with amusement.

"Since we were teens, actually." Billy mused. "He's always been a little… off. Can you imagine he comes from a long line of pirates?"

"His family? Pirates?" Hermione spun to meet him.

"Yes. He ran away from home when he was a kid because he decided the lifestyle wasn't for him. Changed his name, even. His father, Captain Teague, made a name for himself Jack couldn't separate himself from, so he changed it."

Hermione nodded in understanding. "He carries a broken compass." She began, standing up to balance against the rail. "Do you know why?"

Billy frowned in surprise, meeting her eyes with a shrug. "I didn't know it was broken. But, there must be some reason. An odd man, Jack is, but a lost one, no. There is method in his madness. His whole life has been a bit unorthodox. Even now, his behavior continues to surprise me."

"Oh." She was intrigued by his answer and turned away to observe Jack again, trying to figure him out. A quick toss from the waves reminded Hermione of her illness. She gripped the railing with one hand and her abdomen with the other as the ship rocked too much for her liking. "Oh. I think it's time for me to go lie down."

"You do that, Granger." He nodded to her in farewell as she turned to leave, noticing the familiar sway of jelly legs in her gait.

The captain's cabin seemed forever away from her spot at the side of the ship. The rocking was opposite her stride toward the cabin, causing her to stumble sideways here and there before her stomach demanded that she begin to run. She threw open one of the doors and ran to the bed, tossing herself on her back in order to calm her nausea. 

The beige room began to spin as white drapes reached toward her from the open windows, of which she now began to see double. She lay looking up, noticing an opaque set of windows that was allowing daylight in through the ceiling. Another rock in the ship made the chandelier sway in a rhythm opposite the room. Hermione made herself comfortable in the bed and shut her eyes, feeling the pulse in her arms that counted with her every star that she saw in the darkness of her eyelids. After a few minutes, the coolness of the cabin soothed her to sleep as she lay outstretched among the pillows.

__________________________

"Mister GIBBS!" Jack called up to his first mate from the base of the stairs, the sun setting behind them.

"Aye, Cap'n." The man rushed over to meet him.

"Why is the woman in my bed?" Jack seemed calm but, in truth, he was panicked.

"I didn't know she was, sir." Gibbs shrugged his shoulders absently, brows furrowed in expectation of the unpredictable.

Jack reduced his voice to a hushed panic. "How do I get her out of it?" Jack didn't know much about women, but he knew better than to disturb a sleeping female.

Gibbs drew back his lips in a grimacing smile. "I dunno, Cap'n. If ye ask me, we should have left the lass behind. And, since when did Captain Jack Sparrow fail to negotiate a contract with Cutler Beckett? You're far too clever, Jack. Even as a boy you had a knack for such things."

"You're no bloody help at all." Jack frowned and stormed away to consult, instead, his closest friend who sat in the crow's nest, looking out. Jack pulled up the sleeves of his blouse before climbing up the ratlines as he had done thousands of times before. At the top, Jack helped himself over. "Ah, Billy." Jack stood in the small space, leaning against the side of the basket.

"You know this basket can only carry one of us, right, Jack?" Billy folded his arms over his chest, unadmittedly thankful for the company.

"Hogwash, I say. More importantly," Jack cleared his throat as if to add emphasis to his point, "Why is the girl asleep in my cabin?"

"I told her you wouldn't mind" was Billy's simple and irritating reply.

Jack blinked at him with his mouth hanging acutely agape. "Why? That's mine! A man's… captain's cabin is his castle, they say."

"Are you telling me you don't want the pretty girl to sleep in your bed, Jack?" Billy regarded his captain smugly. "If anything, a thank you is in order."

Jack's lips pursed in thought, realizing Billy had a fair point. He shook his head before continuing. "But how do I get around my room without waking her?"

"Jack," Billy said impatiently, "I don't think she'll mind."

"She's a woman. They mind everything."

"She won't mind, Jack. Just don't… creep her out."

"How would I do that?" Jack asked, a little offended.

"Well, don't stare at her, and be sure to listen to her. I think you'll be fine."

Jack was pleased with this, offering Billy a pat on the shoulder before returning to seriousness. "Also, you should know that if I never get my bed back, I'm taking your hammock and you can doze with the chickens. Or, the sharks for that matter."

___________________________

It was dark when Hermione awoke, but not in the cabin. She blinked open her eyes, noticing the telltale glow of candlelight that reminded her she was not home. She stretched her limbs, loosening the sleep from her body by pushing her arms up into the pillows and letting out a small groan, followed by a sigh. Her illness had subsided, to her relief. Now, she felt only a dull pulse in her head and the way her body felt heavy like lead after a hard sleep. She never even noticed the red sleep lines on the side of her face from the stitched pillow she'd slept on.

Jack regarded her as she sighed adorably, pushing herself upward to rest on her elbows, looking out at the room ahead of her. Her vision was still blurry, but a figure across the room spoke.

"Allo, love." The captain's voice rang from the figure. She frantically blinked her eyes awake and sat up in bed, embarrassed. She grabbed the top of her hair in surprise as she looked around. How had she slept so long? When her vision cleared, she saw him at his desk, observing a map. He continued when she didn't respond. "Sleep well?"

He wasn't mad at her? There was a silence that nearly overpowered the dull creaking of bones of the old ship that seemed to rattle as a wave lifted and dropped the ship against a swell. Hermione gripped the bed at the ship's movement that didn't seem to phase the captain at all. This would all take some getting used to.

Hermione only nodded, her deep sleep still having claimed her voice. She cleared her throat before giving him a husky answer, deciding he'd waited for her answer long enough. "Yes, thank you." She looked around the room, finally noticing the ornate engravings in the white-painted room that surrounded them. She continued. "I'm sorry for taking your bed, Captain Sparrow. I didn't know where else to go." She was trying to be as polite as possible as she stood from the bed and pulled the sheets back up.

"Ah, there'll be no need for that, darlin," he waved his hand in the air. "And, it's Jack to you, love."

Hermione saw his compass sitting open on his desk and she saw her opportunity to ask him about it. She walked over, casually rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she went to stand by him.

"What are you doing?" She asked, looming beside his work.

His eyes leaned back into his head slightly when his senses were invaded by the telltale vanilla aroma that came off of her in waves, capturing nearly all of his attention. He'd smelled vanilla once before, at a market in Morocco. He shut his eyes, concentrating on her sweet scent for just a moment before forcing himself to come back to reality. "Charting a course... Estimating how long it will take to arrive at our destination." His map was of the continents; the Atlantic centered.

He explained his work to her but zoned out almost completely as she leaned close to him, her natural vanilla scent overwhelming, and her hair was so close to his nose, soft and bouncing, that he would have reached out and pet her curly tendrils if she hadn't pulled back again. "I'll measure each of these distances, then compare them to the distance calculated here… so… then, C is the square root of A squared and B squared… thus your hypotenuse is six inches. Based on the original estimate, that's about twenty-seven days."

He stared at his work for a long moment, a jest settled on the tip of his tongue. He met her eyes with his dark ones still in place; showing either mischief or arousal, or both.

"You call this efficient?" She dared crack a joke, amused, but was distracted when she saw food on the table. Suddenly her hunger was all-consuming. She had been throwing up all day, afterall.

"Where did you get that?" She asked, afraid she'd missed dinner.

"Ah, it seems you missed dinner." He remarked to her dismay, writing something before giving her attention again. "You can always check below deck to see if the cook has anything."

She slumped, disappointed, before turning to leave.

"Hey, um." He forgot her name, but she stopped nonetheless. "Have a biscuit for the road." He tossed it to her, which she gratefully accepted.

"Hermione."

"Gazuntite."

"No, my name is Hermione, remember?"

"Hermione. Lovely." He echoed softly, making her blush fiercely. She quickly exited the room. He watched her leave, letting go of a long breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding.

_______________________

The food was cold and unsatisfying and only reminded her that she couldn't remember her last meal. Although she ate plenty, she went to bed hungry for something more, which awoke her in the dead of night. Had she been dreaming? She wasn't sure.

It was pitch black, save for the moonlight that shone in through the windows of the cabin; reflecting off of the ocean and lighting the room with a silver glow. A snore jolted her to alertness and she realized that the Captain was fast asleep on the couch where his limbs were strewn about most uncomfortably with one arm draped over his face and the other dangling haphazardly over the edge.

It wasn't long before Hermione spotted his compass hanging open from a string he'd fastened around his wrist; he'd kept it close ever since he'd 'lost' it the day before. If there was a chance for her to examine it, now was it. 

She quietly pushed herself from the bed, careful not to make any noise as she placed her bare feet on the lightly stained wooden floorboards that stung cold against her feet. The young woman crept closer to the sleeping man and knelt down beside him, taking the compass into her hands lightly in hopes the change of weight against his wrist wouldn't wake him. She held her breath as he stirred, rolling onto his back and smacking his lips in his sleep before a deep snore confirmed that she hadn't disturbed him much. Hermione let out a long, measured breath as she turned her attention back to the compass that spun around and around, lost for true north. She dared place the compass in his open palm, searching his face for any sign of movement and found none. The compass' spinning slowed and came to a stop in her direction. She furrowed her brows, unsure of what this meant. The red point shifted again, pointing toward the liquor cabinet and then back at her before finally settling on the liquor cabinet.

She removed the compass from his hand again delicately and held it in her own, wondering what changes would happen. It spun ceaselessly again, trying her patience. After a long minute she shook her head and shut the compass in frustration before marching back to the bed and setting herself on it, arms crossed, calculating the different movements of the compass and their possible meanings. She arrived at no meaningful conclusions and stayed up the rest of the night, tossing and turning in frustration. It was just as she feared: she would have to ask him about it.


	6. Scarlet Letters, Part 1

The next morning the ocean was easier on her than before, perhaps because they were nearing the open ocean- a place free from obstructions that can cause large swells. Here, the only forces were the ship itself and the wind that kept them going; and Hermione appreciated the newfound gentility. Even the captain seemed to appreciate the calmness; noting he was in the cabin more, probably studying his maps or even below deck, making casual conversation with his crew about the latest whosits and whatsits. Even Billy took the wheel for the first time since they'd set sail and, appearing stoic, he seemed to enjoy it.

Hermione had set herself on the railing with her feet dangling on either side, looking out at sea without fear of falling from large waves and observed the clouds. They were cumulus clouds: the sort that make for great observation. On the far west horizon, she spotted what she made out to be a lion and she smiled to herself, reminiscing memories as a Gryffindor. The cloud beside it looked like a dog. Another cloud rolled slowly into her view: a gryndelow, she would put it, what with the whispiness of cirrus clouds at its underbelly with the promise of cool air ahead. Of course, these shapes held no meaning beyond their meteorological and seasonal nature, unlike the rubbish Trelawney might have you think.

Hermione sat forward on the rail enough to brace herself with her hands on the wooden 'seat', peering downward at the water that churned beside the ship, regarding it with a moment of perplexity. What was below? She attempted to fathom the many forms of magical creatures what roamed the ocean, waiting ever so patiently for her discovery. What she would do for some gillyweed and a moment to swim; explore.

She was forced back to presentness when the ship reared against the wave as she gripped the railing tighter until she trusted herself to balance without. But, the swells continued and stubborn Hermione sought about staying put. What did she have to fear when she had flown hippogriffs and dragons and broomsticks?

She shut her eyes and felt the breeze when she felt the abrupt motion of being grabbed. She screamed out in surprise and grabbed onto the hands that held her as they pulled her down from the railing. The hands were strong and sturdy. She spun around to face her intervenor, ready to argue, but the Captain spoke -yelled- first.

"What did you bloody well think you were doing?" Jack was fuming, his eyes darker than ever as they poured into hers.

Taken aback, she stumbled for a response to his otherwise obvious question. "I was simply looking out. It's a harmless venture-"

"It's dangerous!" He was still holding on to her. Realizing this, he released.

"I appreciate your concern, but I was -fine. Just fine, thank you." She was squinting up at him, the sun in her eyes. He grabbed her by the upper arm and lead her into the shade of the nearest sail before holding the bridge of his nose in frustration.

He huffed, summoning his patience and she crossed her arms, listening. "Hermione, I forget you haven't spent much time at sea but you cannot, and I repeat this with much sincerity, you cannot hang about the rail."

"But-"

"No. Do you have any idea what would happen to you if you had fallen?"

"I can swim-"

"You would not be fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to swim, Hermione. The likelihood of that is hardly favourable as you would be suctioned beneath the Wench by the wake, carved to bits by the barnacles and, even if you survive that, love - I rather doubt it-, by the time you reached the back of the boat to be rescued by line you would have died by suffocation for being held beneath the ship for so long. Now, am I understood?"

She had never seen him irate before, but he was. It was as though he had seen this happen before. She trusted his words. "Yes, Jack."

"Captain." He asserted himself to her for the first time and it wasn't until this moment did she fully understand his seriousness. He continued, trying to appeal to her. "I wouldn't be doing my job, Miss Granger, if I did not keep you safe." His gaze softened, but his passion did not. His eyes gazed into hers with a new fierceness and it unsettled her. Why was he so protective?

The tobacco pipe glowed deep red where the man lit it with a match, his unshaven cheeks emerging from the early night like some dull red theatrical mask before fading back into the blue-hued night. He shook the flame from the match before it had a chance to bite at his fingertips. The man took a long and much needed breath from the pipe, leaned back, and released a pensive plume of smoke into the stilled atmosphere. This night at sea was also much calmer than the first and allowed for some leisure time.

"I swear those things'll kill you, mate." Jack interrupted Gibbs' serenity with a cough, fanning the smoke away with his hands, but the elder man was mostly unphased. Jack was now leaning against the ship's banister where his first mate sat on the steps.

Gibbs turned his head ever so barely in order to meet his captain's gaze, the moon illuminating his sardonic expression. "S'long as you're not the death of me first."

"What are you goin' on about, mate? Ye sure stick around a lot for someone who has such little faith in me." Jack pressed his right hand against his chest as if hurt, but his smile expressed only amusement.

Joshamee Gibbs held the pipe in his clenched teeth while retrieving a knife from the inside seam of his stockings, casually using the dull side of the blade to pick shovel grease out from beneath his fingernails. Jack could see frustration in the curvature of his colleague's eyebrows that reflected in the face of the metallic blade.

"What is it, Gibbsy? There's no time for moping, sailor." Jack gestured with his hands in flamboyant disapproval.

Gibbs stopped for a moment, resting his arms on his knees as if to express to Jack his genuine disappointment. "She has you wrapped around her finger, ye know."

"Beg pardon?" Jack leaned in, forehead wrinkled upward in a challenging expression. The sound of the captain's grey coattails fluttering in the wind seemed to close around them before Gibbs spoke again.

"Ye heard me, Jack," Gibbs gave him a narrow glance. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd bend o'er backward for a lass. I mean, she's fine, Jack, but you bow to 'er every whim."

"I do not." Jack defied loudly, startling even himself.

"When do ye plan to get yer cabin back, then, eh? I told ya we should've left that lass at port. I see you lookin' at her every now and again. I could tell you were bewitched from the start."

"Bewitched?" The captain echoed, speaking barely above a whisper. He shook the superstitious nonsense from his thoughts. "What would you rather have me do, Gibbs? Toss 'er over? 'Miss Granger, it's been a pleasure," he acted out the scene theatrically, "but it seems me first mate, the grouchy eunuch, doesn't enjoy women. Sorry, ye prolly won't enjoy the sharks as much as they'll enjoy you." He then gestured out to sea as if tossing something overboard.

"Aye, Jack, you're the captain. Tell the lass to give back your cabinspace. I needn't be tellin' ye this!" He punctuated this statement by sticking his knife into the banister and leaving it.

Jack frowned, pursing his lips in contemplation. He did miss his bed. But, ever the gentleman, he refused to force her to sleep on that bloody couch. Jack shifted his posture at the memory of his past nights of unsatisfactory sleep, shook his head, and pulled the knife from it's wooden stand.

"What should I do with her then," Jack blinked at him expectantly, "'ave her sleep with the crew? Ye can't trust that lot as far as ye can throw 'em. That's true any way you slice it. 'Specially that Brassteeth. He's even creepier than you, mate."

Gibbs rolled his eyes, exasperated. "There be worse things, Jack. Love is a poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill ya all the same… eventually. Ever hear the tale of Davy Jones? The man cut out his own still-beating heart for a woman who could not be with him and he waited forever for her as he still does, only now rabid with hate and vengeance. Doomed with permanent heartache- cursed. Ever hear the story of Adam and Eve? They were banished from God's garden and, you can guess it, it was all Eve's fault. And I'll not let ye be forgettin' sirens, neither."

Jack frowned in contemplation before rebutting. "You know I don't believe in such rot."

Meanwhile, an oil lamp flickered a golden hue that illuminated only the table and the bookcase surrounding Hermione as she carried a quill across the pages of her journal, the ink settling onto the paper before disappearing altogether in the book that had been charmed with disappearing ink. Hermione had been writing all of her diaries and confidential reports this way since her first encounter with Tom Riddle's diary.

In this leather-bound journal Hermione documented her first week at sea: her arrival, meeting Beckett, the Captain, and his crew. Hermione had figured out that neither Jack nor any of his crewmen were magical, thank goodness. However, this didn't help her learn anything meaningful or new about the compass in question. Hermione paused in her writing, thinking. Her right hand occupied with a quill, she took a bite from a stale biscuit that occupied her left hand. She continued again, writing out her plans to find a way to get the captain to reveal the compass and its secrets to her. Would he? She thought it'd be a long-shot, but it was a necessary one. She tapped the feather against the exterior of her nose as if it would stimulate ideas. It didn't. She shut the journal before returning the quill to its inkwell with a huff.

Hermione was stumped. How should she bring up the compass to him? She sat back against the chair in a frustrated pose before resorting to a change of scenery. She'd been at the writing desk all evening. Maybe a walk around the ship would stimulate ideas, she thought to herself. Besides, she can't get any more sunburnt in the moonlight.

She regarded the chill of frost on the windows and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders in preparation to walk the ship when the captain entered unexpectedly.

"Allo, Miss Granger." He appeared abnormally formal, to which Hermione only raised her eyebrows in surprise. He continued. "I 'ave a proposition for you… an accord to be made, dependent upon some… particular negotiations."

"Alright, then. Let's hear it." She stated plainly, off-putting him with the way she listened to him, intently, sweetly. Those whiskey colored eyes undid him completely.

Bewitched, much?

"Erm," his perfectly prepared argument fell apart like caramel on his tongue and he was left to scavenge for mere traces of coherency. "I want my spot back. On the bed, I mean." He stood as tall as he could manage. "'Tis all, love. 50%. Bloody fair deal, don't you think?"

"Jack, I understand but I think it would be, well, awkward if-"

"What is a bed, really? A bed is sacred to a man, or, erm, woman... humans." He quickly backpedaled, not wanting to tread in the, erm, sexual direction. "A bed sees us born; sees us die. It is the… ever changing scene upon which the human race play in turns interesting dramas, laughable farces, fearful tragedies... And, for that, a good and decisive captain needs his bed. Not to mention that bloody sofa is a pain in my arse."

Before Hermione could consider to reply to his lengthy and rather dramatic explanation, Billy entered the room. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"No." Said Hermione.

"Yes." Jack glanced at her before cleverly resigning his answer. "No, in fact… perhaps we've just settled on our compromise. I agree that with Hermione that "no", Billy is not interrupting something as, we agree, I reclaim my fair 75% of the bedspace."

"You just said-" Hermione was astonished at him.

"Shall we settle at 50, then?" He smiled widely before she rolled her eyes and left the room wrapped in her grey cloak.

Jack watched her leave before turning to Billy with a victorious grin in place. "What?" He shrugged his shoulders at Billy's disappointed expression.

"Charming as always, Jack, but I'm sorry to interrupt. Seems someone's gotten into the cargo hold and taken from our surplus supply. Found the door opened. Even the rum is half gone, now."

"Why don't you bother Gibbs or someone -quite frankly _anyone-_ else with that one, Billy?"

"Because you're the only one who has the key."


	7. Scarlet Letters, Part 2

At twilight the open ocean was darker than the universe where Orion led their way toward the far horizon and where stars were colorful and abundant; shining through the stilled air and demanding to be observed. Bright blues and reds and yellows dotted the Milky Way that stretched across the atmosphere like a diamond encrusted sash. On tonight's program: the rise of the crescent moon. There was nothing to distract her other than the now faint sounds of the ship creaking through the calm waves of an even calmer evening where the ocean was darker than obsidian.

Hermione shut her eyes, and unraveled the sleeves of her nightgown down to cover her arms a bit more when a cool wind tugged at her cloak and threatened to push her overboard. But this relaxation was short lived. She leapt awake, startled, when a huge burst sounded from the water. Was it a cannonball? She ran to the starboard side where the splash had emanated, watching wide-eyed for any sign of movement as the water settled into scarce bubbles, dotting the ocean's surface like sizzling carbonation; marbles that danced silver in the moonlight. Slowly but suddenly, a creature reemerged beside the ship; water cascading off of its large, lumpy backside as it raised itself above the water, spitting a fountain of moon-bright seawater up into the air. Hermione relaxed when the whale's spray lightly dotted her face, catching the pale spaces on her nose and cheeks where her freckles had missed.

"Magnificent creatures whales are." The first mate had come to rest against the railing beside her. Hermione was surprised at this. Could he be attempting cordiality? Hermione eyed him quizzically.

The man inhaled from his pipe before releasing a cloud of smoke on his other side. "Granger," He continued, voice gruff, "You must know by now, the captain's appetitive inclinations…"

"Sir?"

"Don't be daft, girl. Even if you think he fancies you, do you expect that he should have any nature beyond short term affection? It's a sailor's life, freedom. Freedom to come and go, and go they will." He exhaled heavily, as though a burden was lifting from his shoulders. "Men like Jack Sparrow venture to a brothel and find familiarity with every wench. Do not torment yourself, Miss Granger. Think not that his motivations are of sound mind and heart."

"I do not leap to such judgement, sir, and neither should you."

"Let's get down to brass tacks, aye? I leap to no judgement. I've known Jack since he was a young'n. He doesn't need a woman like you to interfere with his career, and women like you do. As his first mate, I seek what is best for my captain, and that's not you, Granger. I'm as certain as the Earth be flat."

"Then you should have nothing to fear if his intentions are short term, as you say."

He breathed out heavily, realizing she was right.

Hermione continued. "I should have you know, I have no intention to court the captain. I am here to complete a task and return home…"

"Isn't that what all you English women do, though? Seek husbands?"

Hermione twitched, scoffing at him under her breath. "You do not know me, sir."

He left as quickly as he'd appeared, leaving Hermione more quizzical than she had been before. She rested her face on her palms for a moment, tapping her fingernails against the wooden rail, as if doing so would soothe her ire. To diffuse, she made her way toward the bowsprit, a quieter space than the always-occupied main deck. A quiet deck, it had become her favorite spot on the ship. Hermione climbed down to the lower deck where the figurehead of The Wicked Wench led the ship toward mistier waters. There were no stairs, so jumping down was her only option. She landed with both feet on the deck this time with a thud, but it was an improvement from her graceless fall the day before when she had explored. Hermione stood and pulled down the skirt of her nightgown that had caught at her waist on the leap down. Luckily she was alone. If anyone had seen her undergarments in this era she would have been mortified.

"Out late tonight, are we?" The captain's voice sounded from the figurehead. She thought he was still in the cabin!

Hermione spun around so quickly that she nearly tripped on her nightgown and fell. A deep blush seized the normal color on her face when she realized that the captain had seen her undergarments. This was confirmed when his trademark, mischievous smirk etched its way across his lips. "Oh, no." Hermione brought her hands to her face, hiding her redness.

"Don't be embarrassed, love," he leapt from his spot on the weatherdeck and set his beverage down on a nearby barrel, liberating her hands from her face so that he could view her disarmed, bashful eyes. "You 'ave lovely knickers." When he saw what little good the compliment did, he continued, "'Ere, I'll show you mine if ye like." He turned around as if to unbutton the square area of his trousers that covered his rear when Hermione began to laugh. "Think this is a laughing matter, do you?" He jested, "Did I laugh at you?"

She caught herself quickly and masked her smile, but he caught it just the same. It was in the grey-white luminescence of the moon that he noticed how bright and unexplainably straight her teeth were: He decided she had a truly _perfect_ smile, framed by most alluring lips.

She couldn't figure him out exactly but when a small gleam from his kohl-lined eyes searched her a nervousness pitted deep within threatened the integrity of the joints that kept her standing and the hairs on her arms stood straight up. No, no, it was getting chilly. That had been it. She berated herself, reminding herself of the conversation she had shared with Gibbs earlier: Jack may not have sincere intentions. She needed to put her task first.

"Why don't you take a seat up yonder with me? I'll share my rum with you. It's one of the last bottles, anyhow." The captain offered with a wide, toothy grin. She accepted his hand that aided her climbing up behind the wooden woman, but refused his drink. He followed up after her and took a seat in a pile of rope that he'd fashioned into a comfier tangle.

"Don't mind me first mate," Jack said, casually, sitting himself on the ropes ungracefully, "the greasy tosser. I don't know what he told you, but, his conversations are never very pleasant, no. Never figured out 'ow to talk to women, he. Poor Joshamee Gibbs hasn't had much _success _with the ladies, what with his short, erm... life... Not like me, though." His eyes were dark and excited and he wiggled his eyebrows for her to laugh at. "In truth, 'Popular with the ladies' is my middle name." He paused, thinking with squinted eyes. "Well, that and 'danger'. And 'freedom'. And possibly Robert... Depends on who you ask, really."

The captain pulled the cork from his bottle with a _thump_ before kissing the glass rim and allowing the alcohol to run freely down his throat that extended upward like the mast. While he was preoccupied, Hermione caught view of the compass that rested at his side. A drunk Captain Sparrow might be most likely to tell her about the compass, she plotted.

"Like what you see, darlin'?" He thought she was looking at his-

"Why do you keep that compass? I thought it was broken." She pointed at the compass to correct his misunderstanding.

"Ah," He untied it from his belt and held it up for her viewing. She could tell by the extended 'ahhh' and the pungence of his breath that he'd ingested quite a lot of alcohol already. This could work. "This is my _magic _compass." He flipped it open matter-of-fact-ly and placed it in her waiting hands. Hermione looked it over as if seeing it for the first time.

"It's broken." She gave him a dull look. "I remember that much."

"No- no." He quickly defended, taking the compass from her again. "It has its quirks but my compass works fine."

"How, if it doesn't point north?" Hermione prodded him for information.

"Hold this for me, love." He cleared his throat before drunkenly handing her his rum bottle. Jack shook his compass for effect before reopening it and allowing her to watch as the red needle spun twice before coming to a stop in Hermione's direction. She didn't understand. "Now... pay attention." He swayed, taking the rum bottle away from her and setting it on his opposite side, the needle following it the entire way. Her eyes widened when she discovered what the magic was but her eyes quickly turned into a disappointed scowl when she realized the purpose of his compass.

"It points to rum? That's what it does?" Great disdain was evident in her voice even though she attempted to mask it. That is the great mystery of the magic compass? He uses it to locate his favorite alcoholic beverage? Hermione was fuming as she rested her arms on her knees to diffuse the disappointment that roiled her stomach. Did the Ministry take her for a fool? She had thought she was destined for greater.

Jack eyed her with concern, rocking on his bum as his sobriety and drunkenness battled for control. "Don't be so _discontented_." He slurred his vowels. "It's magic." He leaned in close to her, so close, in fact, that she could feel his breath against her face. She recoiled, sitting back again with her face contorted for more reasons than one.

Perhaps it had a valuable explanation, Hermione bargained with herself. Despite an oncoming headache she rationalized that she shouldn't be too surprised that magical sailors in the eighteenth century Caribbean chose to create an enchanted compass that points to rum, and lucky muggle Captain Sparrow happened across it. It made some sense, but where did he get it?

"Let me try." Hermione accepted it from him again before opening it and watching the needle spin endlessly on its bearings. "Nothing? Suppose I don't like alcohol, anyway."

"Sorry, doll." He said before taking another large sip of rum.

"Where did you get it?" Hermione asked.

He frowned at this question as if revisiting an old memory, swaying a bit before regaining his balance. "It was a gift." He plucked it from her hands and tucked the compass away in his blouse to mark the end of the conversation. "Now," He leaned coolly on the ship's railing that creaked against his weight, attempting to display sobriety, "It's my turn to ask you some questions. Only fair and square, right?" His eyebrows rose expectantly.

"Right." Hermione complied, unsure of what he was getting at.

"What does _mudblood_ mean?"

Her eyes widened and she hid her scarred arm behind her. He'd seen it. How had he seen it? When had he seen it? Jack could tell by her stunned response that his question unsettled her. It was a scar, after all, and he'd never seen anything like it. He crossed his his arms patiently, ignoring the way his billowy white blouse fought against a new gust of wind, and kept the spotlight on her.

"How did you see it?" Hermione needed to know. She'd always kept the sleeves of her dress long enough to cover it. _Always_.

"You've been having nightmares," He reached for her arm that she'd been hiding behind her and gently rolled up her sleeve, revealing her scar to the both of them. "I went to check on you and found it poking through your sleeve, here..." Suddenly he didn't seem drunk anymore. Hermione was beginning to doubt whether he had been drunk at all. Had he planned this from the beginning? "You said it in your sleep, too. What does it mean?"

As they both studied the etchings on her forearm that read like a grisly epitaph Hermione was struck with no sustainable answers for him. Jack carried his thumb over the length of the scarred letters gently, feeling each of the ridges and boundaries as if attempting to read her past like braille. She blinked rapidly, thinking. She turned away, unable to look in his eyes that bore deep into hers, searching to understand. "It's derogatory..." she found breathing was more and more difficult now, "I'm sorry, I can't.." was as thorough an explanation she as could manage. She hoped he would accept it.


	8. The Rum Theif

The following day marked a quarter of their journey. The mid-Atlantic, however, came with many faults: Strong and unobstructed breezes, blazing sunlight, and a maddening never-ending-ness of open-sea. Not to mention their depletion of supplies, and the people aboard The Wicked Wench were becoming increasingly weird.

Jack anxiously eyed the helm and the deck to see if anyone noticed him drifting off in thought. When the coast was clear, he stood at the wheel in distracted contemplation. He opened his compass and watched it spin. His frown deepened when the needle didn't stop.

After documenting her findings on the compass from the night before and carefully omitting the details of her intimate encounter(s) with the Captain, Hermione had run out of things to write about and books to read, and she needed to keep herself from going raving mad with cabin fever. Thus, she set about learning the workings of the ship; even contributing some. This came at a cost, however: Hermione greatly lamented the sunburn that had snuck up on her, unexpected and vicious. While

most of her body was covered in her gown, her hands, chest and face were not spared. Yet, when the redness faded, Hermione's freckles surfaced. She noticed the new freckles with a disappointed huff. She didn't like her freckles much.

"Good morning, Hermione." Billy greeted her, observing her from the nearby tackline that he was leaning on, eating an apple. He tossed an apple to her, which she barely caught, having just lifted her head to see him; drowsiness withholding her better coordination, but she managed. Hermione studied the apple for imperfections, turning it in her hands before remembering to thank him.

"Thanks, Billy."

To this he returned her greeting with a warm smile.

Feeling burdened by the heat of the sunlight, she wandered up the stairs and stopped at the helm where the sun was obstructed by the sail overhead.

"We ought to find you some more books at port."

Hermione spun in place, not realizing Jack was at the helm, even though she should not have been surprised by this. He offered her a smile. "Sorry to give you a fright, darlin'. It seems we're running low on supplies, books included, I figure."

"I do love to read." Hermione said.

"I know, love, you've read about fifty books in the last week. About everything I have, really. It's a wonder you stay sane."

"They keep me sane, it seems." She appreciated he noticed this about her even when she felt rather invisible.

Billy approached them. "Jack - Captain." He looked around after modifying his mistake. "Ever figure out who has been stealing from the supplies?"

"No… In fact," Jack narrowed his eyes, "I'm still making deliberations on the matter. I'll review for you: Imagine that you're a sad bloke stuck at sea for the last week and go baffled mad from the sun... What would you do?" Billy frowned. Hermione shrugged her shoulders.

Jack continued. "I, for one, would prefer to hide out all bloody day. Escape the work, the weather. I imagine a quart of rum would only spawn more misery for the busy blokes we keep aboard. That leaves only one…"

Jack and Billy both looked at Hermione, neither accusing nor innocently, calculating her from head to toe for signs of drunkenness or thievery.

"You can't possibly think it's me, Jack."

Jack nodded, "It would be improbable but, you see, it would only make perfect sense for it to be you, love. All things considered, no one stole from our supplies before this voyage, I can't always keep an eye on ye, and only I happen to have the key, which you could very well have access to at night…"

Hermione allowed her chin to fall, astounded. "That is a bold accusation, Jack. I don't even like rum and you know it."

"Ah, but I don't know what I don't know love, which could very well be that you farmed an incredible ploy in which the reaps of your plan rewards you a month-long booze cruise on a ship in which you can read and drink your beautiful heart away. Does that not sound like the poet's dream to you, Hermione?"

"I'm certainly spoiled here, yes, but I swear to you, I've not been stealing!" Hermione hit him once in the chest for good measure, her cordiality suddenly retreating from her oncoming ire. She wanted to slap him silly, the way he accused her of something so contrary to her character!

He smiled, amused by the rise he was getting out of her. He knew full well that she had not been stealing their resources. Yet, he loved to play games with her. Moreso, he loved the way she blushed at him. "Well, then, love, I suggest you busy yourself in finding the culprit and clear your pretty little name. Aye?"

"And how do you expect me to do that? Certainly the burden of proof is on the accuser." She crossed her arms, fuming.

"You're a brilliant girl, Hermione. You'll figure something out." He flashed her a charming smile before returning his attention to his work.

Hermione huffed away, as she often did, tossing her half-eaten apple over the side of the ship with the same frustration that caused her lack of appetite. The captain bothered her so.

He was always teasing her or playing little mind games with her and she loathed him for it. Somehow, she always managed to forgive and forget Jack's behavior; being surprised again and again by his tricky manner of play. How could she let her guard down for him so easily?

"Now that she's gone, I need your help with… something." Jack pushed a bottle into Billy's unexpecting hands where the sun did not appear behind the mainsail.

Billy frowned in surprise, noticing the captain was drinking rather early, but had no complaints. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Jack?" Amused, he uncorked the bottle and took a casual sip.

"I have a…" Jack leaned in close, looking around for listeners and found none, "a female dilemma." Jack's eyes widened and squinted with emphasis.

"I'm listening..." Billy sat against the desk beside the helm.

Jack winced. "It seems, there is some sort of… misunderstanding between… no. Erm," He struggled to find words and resorted to a great swig from the bottle in his hand for help. "...Usually when I find a woman attractive, I need only pay for her services and part ways after…"

"...But Hermione is not like those women."

Jack nodded. "Precisely."

Billy gave a sigh before speaking. "You know what to do, then?"

"I haven't the slightest."

"Don't treat her like one of them." Billy took another sip.

A sailor called Brassteeth butted in to their conversation from nearby, "This works every time, Capt'n: Put her with a sailor like me who can do everything wrong so that you might be the better option, yeh? What I'd do, if I was that person, is I'd-"

"I'll stop you right there, Brassteeth, no. That is a terrible idea." Billy impeded him from saying anything more. He looked to Jack for a reaction to find that Jack appeared disturbed.

Jack shook off Brassteeth's suggestion and turned back to Billy, guiding him away. "Listen, Billy, my manners of seduction are foolproof."

"Why are you asking for advice from me, then?" Billy smiled just barely as Jack was taken aback by his point.

Jack cleared his throat to create more time to think. "She… is different from those women."

"I know." Billy turned to him, his expression serious. "Invest in her."

"Give her things?" Jack was perplexed.

"Give her your time. Okay? What do you like about her?"

Jack frowned and stumbled, taken aback by the overwhelming images that suddenly flooded his thoughts. "Well," Jack raised his hand so that he could count on his fingers, "She's incredibly smart, she smells like vanilla -have you ever smelled vanilla before, Billy? and those whiskey-colored eyes, the way her nose crinkles when she smiles… her curly tresses of hair, she has those freckles, I always like those. Have you seen how strangely perfect her teeth are? Oh, and when she's embarrassed you should see the way she-"

"Alright, Jack," Billy chuckled. "Have you ever been in love with someone before?"

The captain ceased all movement, his wide eyes frozen stiff in their sockets; globes that envisioned every moment with her, every great detail. His dark irises were all that moved when Jack returned his attention to Billy. "No," he waved Billy off, "and that's not it, I'm certain of it."

Billy moved closer, serious. "I've seen the way you look at her. I felt that way when I met my wife." The man moved to rest his elbows on the banister and studied his bottle longingly.

Jack deflated, coming to rest by his side after a moment of contemplation. "Well, how do you propose I get the girl?"

"She likes to read? Talk to her about books. She likes to write. Ask her about her writing. Show her you care. Women love that honesty."

"Honesty, eh?" Jack pressed his tongue into his cheek.

Billy's eyes widened before mending his statement with haste. "Not too much honesty, though, Jack. You don't want to get slapped."

Jack turned to meet him, surprised. "Well, how do I avoid that?"

"Don't be honest."

Jack shook his head and, exasperated, went for another long sip of rum. "You're no help at all, old friend." Jack patted the sailor on the back and went on his way.

"Wait…" Billy followed him. "There's still a few things you can do."

The captain spun around melodramatically, listening with a thoughtful frown.

"Here's a few ideas to woo her, Jack, okay? Listen to her. If you touch her, let it be light and in passing, like this." Billy traced his hand on his own sleeve. "Do it light enough for her to notice and short enough for her to miss it. Hold her hands. Tell her stories at night or something. Figure out what she likes and do that."

Jack smiled, pleased. "I knew you'd come through, mate... Do you think she's, you know, into me?"

"Not in the slightest, Jack." Billy thanked him for the beverage by raising his drink, leaving Jack pensive and wide-eyed.

Jack looked out at the turbulent ocean for a moment, relating to it more than ever. The whitecaps rolled into the bright blue abyss captured by each wave, reminding him how mysterious Hermione was to him. After a big, long sigh, Jack retrieved his compass from his belt and held his breath. He opened it. Watched it spin.

The red dial came to a firm stop in the direction of his cabin. Doubting himself, he shook his head and pocketed the compass. It was impossible for the compass to point toward a human, right?

After having finished yet another book, Hermione found herself returned to the bottom of the wooden staircase with a huff, holding her head in her hands; distracting herself from boredom with thoughts of birds and how much she missed them.

Suddenly, the thud of a fallen, rogue pulley landing on the deck alerted her to the group of men that scuffled after it, running across the deck as though chasing a squirrel across a yard. In the midst of the madness, a figure eased by. If it weren't for Hermione's boredom, she may not have noticed. The figure moved deliberately, watching only as they occupied themselves with the fallen pulley he passed Hermione and slunk below deck. Hermione found his behavior to be highly suspect. Opportune, even. She waited a moment or two before she decided to pursue her gut feeling that something was off. She stood up and wandered near the door to the lower deck, eyeing it curiously.

She had never been below deck before. Hermione eyed the dark space below hesitantly, where a measly set of stairs descended from the sunlight into a darkness that seemed ominous, cool and damp, lit only by the sun that shone in through the iron grates that lined the main deck. She wandered down, slow and alert, holding on to the makeshift rope rail as the ship fell from one side to the other. In truth, the below had an enjoyable climate- other than the fact that it smelled almost entirely like feet.

She saw out of the corner of her eye as the silhouette snuck around the far corner. Hermione crept down to the base of the stairs and followed him, paying attention to the sounds of the boards creaking against her feet and attempted to stand only on the quieter ones. She held her breath, not only to keep quiet, but because the air tasted as foul as it smelled. Rounding that same corner, she watched in secrecy as the boy stood in front of an iron gate that enclosed the ship's more precious resources. Some crates were marked as rum barrels, while others were marked as surplus biscuits and whatnot. Either way, the contents of these barrels and crates were intentionally off limits to the crew. Was this their thief?

The person looked around once, twice, before deciding he was alone and gestured toward the lock on the gate. Like magic, the lock fell open. So did Hermione's now gaping mouth. He's magical. Hermione blinked away her disbelief and pursued him with her eyes, watching intently as he opened the rum barrel and withdrew a bottle and set it in his awaiting satchel; then a handful of biscuits. He was about to raid the plantains when Hermione stepped into the open.

"What are you doing?" She addressed him, alert but guarded.

"Oh, Miss Hermione, I-" The sailor she recognized as 'Donavan' searched within himself for reasonable answers and found none. He seemed to shrink. "I was getting lunch. Well, second lunch, really."

"Is rum a necessity for lunch?" Hermione realized she sounded like McGonagall for a moment.

"Uh, no, ma'am." He seemed remorseful, but still held on to the satchel as though it contained his most prized possessions.

"Donavan. How did you manage to open that lock?"

His eyes were wide and urgent. "It was already opened, miss."

"No, it wasn't. How did you open it?"

The young man seemed to move through all different stages of emotions before finally spitting out his answer. "You wouldn't understand! You'd think me mad! Like everyone else did!"

"What wouldn't I understand?" Hermione came to stand in front of him, feeling only sympathy.

"I can't trust you. If they find out they'll have me killed. I'm sorry, Hermione," he held up a pistol that he'd concealed in his bag, "I have to kill you. You know too much." His eyes were wet with tears and Hermione had to think quickly.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion when Donavan held his hand on the trigger and Hermione lifted her hands to merit his patience. "Donavan, I'm not like the others. I know what you are-"

"And what am I, then?" He shook in his boots, the gun wavering as unsteadily as he did. "An abomination? A freak of nature?"

Hermione moved back slowly as she came to sit on a barrel, attempting to coax him toward conversation and away from hostilities with her cordiality. It seemed to work, because he lowered the pistol, a little. She reduced her voice to a whisper.

"You can do special things, can't you? You've always been able to these things that no one else can," she motioned toward the open lock. "I can, too."

He eyed her nervously and quickly, and with such movements his eyes loosened a tear but he maintained his hostile posture. "Do it, then." He demanded with a

shaky voice. She couldn't tell if he was scared or angry. Through clenched teeth he said to "Show me."

Without batting an eye, Hermione cast out her patronus: A blue light that assembled from the dusty air and came into the form of an otter, twirling around them as if in a river of speckled stardust where the light shone in from the spaces of the wooden deck above. Donavan jerked around, following the otter with his eyes, then his head, when it circled about him once and disappeared as quickly as it came. Another tear fell.

"Donavan," Hermione said his name to regain his attention. "I can help you."

He looked pensive, staring at her for a long moment before realizing he still had his pistol out. He stashed it back into his satchel before tapping the seconds by with the toe of his boots against the wooden floorboards. "I don't need your help." He said, his voice breaking with emotion; biting his bottom lip as though it would help him hold back a tear. It didn't, and he took off upstairs, brushing roughly past her shoulder as he went.

She didn't follow him. Instead, she sat back against the crate behind her, thinking thoroughly of the events that had just unfolded, how it could have gone wrong, and how it could still go wrong.


	9. Cardinal Directions

Later that night, a spire of smoke rose oblique from a center fire that warmed naked feet where men sat about in their weary bones gnashing on supper, fire-roasted plantains, from iron cups and jostling to a folk tune that played long-forgotten poetry. They passed around a bucket of fresh water like holy communion- not minding that it was peppered with algae and dirt and whatever else floated atop. Hermione noticed that the men savored their water supply as though it were pure gold; as if all that mattered was a rusty tin bucket that was circulated twice a day, with each meal. When the bucket reached her she accepted it, noting the dust and debris that polluted it. She passed it on without taking a sip, deciding to stick to a bottle of rum because, in truth, at least it was clean.

The sun was just down and gave way to the clusters of bloodred cumulus clouds that tumbled along the far horizon and eventually disappeared into the darkness, leaving them with nothing but a centre fire and their lanterns for light.

The centre fire made it look as though her face was glowing and she sat back and hugged her legs to her chest in thought. In her lap was a copy of sonnets she had retrieved from an armour in the captain's cabin. She had finished it already but carried it around in case she decided to re-entertain her favorite parts. She set the book open and flipped to a page she had marked, now nose deep.

Noticing this, Jack set his jaw to the side, deciding whether or not now would be a good time to speak with her. But he was left disappointed when the sailor, 'what was his name, Donovan?' approached her and took the space beside her. She welcomed him kindly, and it wasn't until a moment later did Jack realize how tightly he gripped his bottle. Diffusing, he took a long sip. Hermione took a sip from her bottle, too.

"How long have you been sailing, Donovan?" Hermione regarded him.

He filled his iron cup with the plantains that hovered over the fire before sitting back down to continue their conversation. "When my parents kicked me out at 11 years, I reckon."

Hermione remembered that she realized her magical abilities at about eleven, too. She held the bottle in her hands, studying it's texture, feeling a buzz already setting in from her first few sips. The rum was strong but it was sweet and, therefore, a dangerous drink to have.

She leaned over to Donavan. "One of my first incidents was when I couldn't reach a book on the top shelf of my parents' bookshelf." She held up her book of sonnets for example. "I wanted it, and it descended toward me, ever so slowly. My parents figured out I had been taking their books when they found them in my bed where I read them under the sheets. Granted, the books were beyond my age but not beyond my comprehension..."

She then held up her rum bottle and watched how the glass distorted the flame. Never before had she been interested in alcoholic ventures, but seeing as the alternative was a highly questionable batch of algae, she opted to test her tolerance. After an experimentally long sip, she brought it back down, satisfied. Her thoughts were interrupted when voices called out from around them.

"Oi, Hermione," the crewman called Brassteeth snapped his fingers in the air. "Since when did they start teaching women to read?" He motioned toward the book in her hand, to which she rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"You know what they say, Brassteeth," the man called Abraham chimed in, "those who can't think for themselves choose to read instead. The only book you'd best be reading is the Bible. Oi! I'd be happy to recite a few sermons for you, sinners." He jabbed at the crew.

Hermione, feeling her rum a bit, spoke her mind without hesitation. "You don't know the first thing about me... I am one of the best and brightest students of one of the most prestigious schools in the entire world, mind you."

"I bet she couldn't survive a day at sea on by her lonesome, though." Brassteeth snickered to the men beside him.

Hermione sat back, taking another sip of rum. She needed to channel her frustration wisely. When the moment diffused, she summoned a little more sobriety and whispered into her hand a jinx. It didn't take long for Brassteeth to leap up from his spot on the deck, throwing his empty cup of food and thrashing his hands about, yelling about maggots that no one saw but him.

During this excitement, Hermione saw fit to leave toward the cabin. She had her fill of their drunken nonsense! Not to mention, she was a tad too intoxicated to repress her magical impulses, what with a powerful, tingling feeling settled at her fingertips with every new joke they spent on her. Upon leaving, she shut the door to the cabin heavily.

"Oi," Brassteeth leaned to Twigg when the door had sounded shut. "Have a gander at the bird. Whew. What a beaut. You could almost see her ankles when she stood up just then."

Twigg chuckled aloud, "Don't you be dreamin' a lass like that could ever go for a greasy tosser like ye."

"Ah, but imagine…" His smile half-rotted.

The captain tilted his head upward with a dark frown, his eyes sharp and dangerous, listening.

"And what makes you think she'd shag you, anyway?" Twigg interjected, coughing on his beverage with a deep laugh.

"Don't tell me you don't dream of a good shag e'ry now and then! Aye? All these years of sailin' and I couldn't imagine a bird like her. And I'll drink to that." He raised his glass to the air and drank nearly half the bottle in a few long gulps.

"Cap'm," Abraham got his attention, "Bloody 'ell, you know 'er be'er than any of us. Ye think the lass would go for me? I mean we 'ave loads in common: we both know how to read, unlike you sorry lot!" He jabbed at the crew through the fire with an accusing finger.

Jack was uncharacteristically silent with his mouth held in a firm line. "She's brilliant. She'd be sellin' herself short if she settled for any of us degenerates." He finished with a tot of rum, noticing how the beverage began to taste more and more bitter.

"What's the ma'er, cap'm," another crewmember teased, "guess ye prefer to keep 'er all to yourself, then, eh? If I was captain, I would share and share alike!" Brassteeth spat drunkenly, wavering from side to side before throwing an arm around Billy who threw him off just as quickly.

"Yeh!" Twigg chimed in, "If ye think 'bout it, why did she want to sail with any of us? Does anyone actually believe she's a writer? I mean, her choice to join us sailors ought to be a whore's errand."

"That's enough!" A new voice bellowed from behind. The crew turned to find their quietest member had yelled at them from where he stood against the mast. His voice was firm; arms folded tightly on themselves with a vice grip.

"What was that, Donovan?" The crewmember charged him.

"Don't talk about miss Granger like that." He crossed his arms, trying to appear cool behind shrouded timidness. He finally raised his eyes to meet theirs. "She's a lady."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before the crew erupted in laughter. Billy watched with a concerned eye as Jack merely turned his attention to the bottle in his hands with a quiet, thinking gaze. His pupils darkened and snapped toward Abraham who kept on. "Say, Cap'm, why 'aven't ye made a move on 'er yet? Tits too small for ya?"

Jack stood up.

The entire crew had their eyes on him and all was quiet save for the crackling fire. "What's the ma'er with you, Cap'm?" One of them shouted.

Jack looked around and realized how firmly he gripped the bottle in his hands, knuckles white. He cooled himself and made to leave, his hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his sword.

"Don't wear the lass out for the rest of us, boss!" A soused man bellowed from across the blazing fire to fall on Jack's ears. He stopped in his tracks and turned around, his expression fierce.

"Donovan is right." Jack now approached the fire. "You wankers 'ave had enough for tonight." He poured the contents of his bottle onto the burning logs until the fire was consumed in smoke, leaving shocked faces to stare in the dark. "Enough of this." His voice was deep and warning. "None of you will set a hand on Miss Granger. I'll have that hand lopped off. Mark me."

No one spoke when the captain left toward his cabin again with the empty bottle in hand. Billy looked around for a moment before running to meet his captain. He spoke in haste, but in a whisper. "Jack, what was that? I've never seen you like this."

"What would you 'ave done?" Jack snapped at him, his voiced hushed like the murmurs from the crew. "Nothing?"

"I might not 'ave made that scene, no. They'll think you've gone soft for her."

"By threatening them?" Jack's mustache twitched in irritation, his voice rising in anger.

Billy was alarmed by the captain's never-before-seen anger, and he deflated. "S'pose not."

Jack made no reply, and instead looked around with narrowed eyes at the crew who watched him from the darkness before entering his cabin, leaving the doors to slam behind him.

Inside he heard the soft rustle of bedsheets. In the moonlight he could make out unruly brown curls, Hermione's sleeping form, turning in the bed. He reminded himself to be quiet so as not to wake her. Jack breathed out deeply, shrugging off his coat and setting it on the coat hanger, topping it with his tricorn hat and effects, until all that remained was his pants and linen shirt.

He pulled his compass from his pocket and made to set it on a table, but he hesitated. Jack turned his gaze back to Hermione and realized how quickly his heart sped and how his stomach twisted and he felt both sick and overjoyed all at once. Impatient, he held the compass tightly in hand and opened it.

He fell back against the table in disbelief and the table audibly protested the abrupt movement, screeching loudly across the floorboards. He'd never thought it possible that the compass could point toward a person, yet, here it did.

"Jack, is everything okay?" A soft, tired voice sounded from in front of him and he realized that she was pushing herself up. Startled, he shut his compass.

He fumbled to stand up straight and he returned his compass to his pocket. "Nothing. I mean- erm- yes, love. I'm alright."

She could tell by the pitch of his voice that he was hiding something.

"Was that your compass, there?"

"Aye, yes." He shuffled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "No worries."

"Your compass… Its bothering you." She sat up on the bed now.

"No."

"You're hiding something, Jack. What is it?"

"Am not."

"If there's nothing to hide then there is nothing you can't tell me. What does your compass point to?" She was clever. Too clever. But, so was he.

He waved a hand in the air as he spoke. "I don't bloody well know, love." He tossed the compass to her. "You tell me. What does my compass show you?"

She made no immediate reply after she opened it but tossed it to back him, because it pointed at him. "Jack, please, it's your compass. It can't tell me anything worthwhile." She shrugged, watching as the dial resumed its incessant spin while it rested, unheld, on the bed between them. "Pick it up. Please. Whatever it is, it's bothering you, and now me. I want to know the truth. Now."

He picked it up and returned it to his pocket, hearing her but barely listening. "I'll tell you… later." That was his father's favorite 'please leave me alone now' phrase.

"Jack Sparrow, I deserve to know." She sat up on her knees. "There is something more to this."

He quickly came around to her side of the bed. "You're right, Hermione," his eyes bore deeply and searchingly into hers as he stepped toward her and she, as if in turn to his dance, sat back. "Tell me, what did my compass show you?"

"It pointed to you, when I held it. But- I don't understand, Jack. What does that mean? That's why you're so bothered… isn't it?" He barely heard her speak after the first four words. His head was spinning and, somehow, he was still standing, leaving her without an answer.

"It means..." He focused on her lips, thinking about capturing them and keeping them forever, elated at the information she'd so easily and so unknowingly divulged to him. His eyes smiled devilishly. "It means you want me, love."

"Jack, I'm tired of your games. What does it mean?" She backed away, her expression remained serious but her chest grew speckled red with a newfound blush. He noticed this with a smirk.

"I'm not lying to ye. Go ahead, hold it. Open it. Walk around! You can't resist me, love, despite your best attempts at hiding it." His eyes were large and dark and searched her for answers that she refused to give him, but her body language betrayed her.

She was baffled by him.

For once, she was left speechless. "You're vile." She turned to leave, refusing to continue his game.

"No, no. Hermione, I didn't mean it," he ran to block her exit, dropping his seductive persona. "I'm not toying with ye, love. I'm tellin' you the truth." He paused while she listened, her eyes fixed and irritated, daring for him to say the wrong thing.

She imagined punching him, square on the nose, like she's done to Draco once. "Hermione. I'm telling you the honest truth. That compass points to whatever the beholder desires most."

"Is that why, earlier, it was rum?"

"The whole time, darlin'."

"Why did you lie to me?"

Her brow furrowed, on guard. At this point, she had totally forgotten about the compass pointing to him and what it meant.

He winced at this. "Erm, I withheld the truth because... not everyone can handle such… sensitive matters."

Her expression was now lethal. "Am I not capable of handling sensitive matters?"

"You're brilliant, Hermione." He picked up her hand. "I apologize to ye about lying. I'm tellin' you the truth." He covered his heart with his opposite hand. Honesty.

If she stayed there any longer he would have kissed her, but she sat back on the bed, thoughtful, before she huffed and rushed from the cabin. This time he didn't stop her and, instead, set course toward another bottle of rum.

By the time she returned for sleep Jack had passed out drunk on the bed where the rum, still held in his hand, had spilled over the rim and dotted the floorboards. She removed the bottle from his hand and, after inspecting him for consciousness and finding none, took a long sip from the bottle for herself. She coughed when her body rejected its strength but waved it off with a smaller, more controlled sip before discarding the bottle on a bedside table.

It was only then that she noticed the compass laying open in his palm, the needle still. Turning her head, she moved to examine its direction and the ship seemed to tilt alongside her. When she realized the red needle pointed toward her, she shook her head in disbelief. Hermione's heart raced when she knew what her reaction to him meant. She stumbled back and caught herself on the bed corner with an audible gasp. He was right. And, now, the compass he held pointed toward her.

This was a nightmare. Her project would suffer. She sat on the bed, the weight of the world on her shoulders. What did this mean? She returned her gaze to meet his sleeping form, feeling nothing but the rapid pulse in her eardrums. Should she return home, before this went any further, and let someone else complete her task? She leaned over and put out the candle before carefully laying on the bed beside him.

Hermione eyed Jack for a long minute, measuring his features closely. Was she admiring him? She would say no. But, yes. She attended to his tanned skin and slight facial hair, and the trinkets that lined his dreads, even. She let her curiosity wander and her eyes followed the parted neckline of his linen shirt, noting the warmth that emanated from his bare chest in waves. When she looked closer, so close she could almost touch him, she could see scars molded into his skin. Quickly and shamefully, she retreated, reminded of her own scars that she hid. She blinked once, twice, three times and she realized she missed his eyes.

Hermione gently took the compass from his hand and studied it, too, before rolling over and falling asleep. When she turned away, the captain let a small, knowing smile grace his lips.


	10. Black Tea and Rum

"What is that?"

"Black tea."

"Eh. I hate black tea."

"Hey, careful!" Hermione stashed away her book on ancient runes after Ron had set his pumpkin juice on top of it.

"Sorry. Why do you have to go off to school anyway? You realize we'll never get to see you." Ron was wearing his family's garish holiday sweater and the striped pajama pants that were always far too wrinkled.

"Cambridge offered me a scholarship. I'd be a fool not to accept it." She opened her book by the common room fireplace where she warmed herself with a sip of her tea. "Besides, my family always wanted me to continue."

Ron looked to Harry with concern. "But, Hermione, aren't your parents… you know... gone?"

"You think I don't realize that already?" She slammed her book closed with such an echo that all of Griffyndor house was now briefly attentive to their exchange. She looked around before hushing her tone."I'm sorry... I'm still not accustomed to it."

Harry scooted forward on the sofa where he sat. "I think what you're doing is great, Hermione. Cambridge will be lucky to have you."

"Thank you, Harry." She reopened her book, studying the fire for a moment before returning her attention to the text and back to Ron again. There was never an exchange between them that was as passionate as the kiss they shared in the Chamber only a few months ago. "Ron," she looked up from her book, her eyes reflective with tears unshed, "I don't understand what's happened. What did I do?" She turned to view him. "First you were with Lavender and then you were with me, what- Ron, I don't understand."

He breathed in, rubbing his fingers together nervously. "Ah well, you see, Lavender was gone that night -and it was good at the time to be with you Hermione, you're my best friend- and what we shared was great but since Lavender's healed after the battle-"

"You mean to tell me you sought comfort in me as a mere alternative? Ron, I - I thought you cared about me. What about the deluminator and the kiss and, and you called me your girlfriend when Goyle tried to…" Her emotion changed from one of anguish to one of fury, "What did I do wrong? Why was I never good enough?" She leaped up from her seat.

She sat up with a jolt and the mattress shook in protesting her violent transition from sleep- emerging not only from a dream but a memory. She brought her knees to her chest as she sat up in bed and rested her head in palms when she realized that her forehead was covered in a sheen of perspiration. A tear slipped from her left eye and she wiped it away to maintain her composure.

To her right the captain was fast asleep, and she could tell by the blue-grey hue of the room that it was nearly sunrise. She willed herself calm and laid back down, careful not to disturb him. It was the first time she'd awakened next to him and, to her utter surprise, she didn't mind it. Although, as she observed him, her heart raced for reasons she would not yet allow herself to acknowledge.

When she woke for the second time she was alone and was pestered that the ship never ceased it's rocking. Of course she knew it couldn't be helped, but it, too, seemed to contribute to her downward spiral toward certain madness. It kept her on her toes, making sure she never set rolling-capable objects on most surfaces, including herself. Her eyes set on the side-table candle, watching as the flame alone seemed to tilt from side to side, as if herself and everything else had finally become entirely one with the ship.

She breathed out heavily and returned her attention to the novel that she had sat in her lap, opening it to find her place had been lost. She felt so unlike herself: clumsy and lost as though cursed by a confundus charm. All of her emotions, her concentration, her self-control had dissolved into a manner of chaos she'd never before dealt with.

With a quick flick of her eyes up to the door handle to the cabin, her eyes locked there, viewing, waiting, hoping he would soon enter. Dare she admit she missed him? Dare she accept that she enjoyed him more than her books? Instead, she accepted herself decidedly mad.

Hermione smiled bashfully to herself and bit her lip as she sunk deeper into the pillows at the thought of him. She cringed at the memory of him seeing under her skirt that one night but overjoyed at the memory of the way he'd caressed the scar on her arm just after. Hermione traced over her forearm with shut and sensing eyes, recalling the way he felt there.

Not even Ron had given her such excitement. It was as if she was bursting at the seams with butterflies! Defeated by these lingering thoughts she finally shut her book and held it to her chest, fighting her inner logic that now bargained for reason. You can't love him, Hermione. It was simply forbidden. She knew she must comply with the agreement she'd made with the Ministry. This was abuse of her duties, misuse of magic, tampering with the course of history, among many other crimes she could very well be guilty of!

A tear slipped from her left eye that shone gold in the candlelight and trailed down her cheek. Her thoughts were brought away when a rather large wave rocked the ship, causing her to grip the bed and then reach for the candle before it slid off of the table beside her. "Merlin!" She yelped in pain as the hot candle wax burned her hand with the sudden movement; causing her to drop the candle on the floor where the spilled wax soon suffocated the flame. Simultaneously, lightning struck in the distance, lighting up the room like the flash of a spell. In the moment, her hair had fallen loosely from its bun and she was too distracted by the new and sudden storm to care. She leapt from her place to rush to the nearest window; watching the horizon that faded into deep grey, churning waters: a storm was brewing. Fast.

Where had this come from?

Her heart raced at the idea of a large swell capsizing the ship and their possible imminent, premature deaths - or worse - failing her project as a result of the former.

She felt her heartbeat in her ears and she began to feel dizzy as the ship rocked more dramatically from side to side, and heavy footsteps were heard from the frantic sailors above her. She urged herself to calm down, taking deep breaths.

Miraculously, the waves also seemed to calm.

A tingle in her fingertips alerted her to a sobering fact: SHE had summoned the storm. She recognized that it was a completely accidental but totally convenient outlet for her emotions and she hadn't even realized she had done it. Hermione hugged a pillow to herself, deep in thought, having the cabin to herself what with all hands on deck battling the storm that now built outside at her command. Lightning struck the far horizon as a tear fell from her cheek and a new set of tormented waves crashed into the ship.

Even though he was away captaining the Wicked Wench during Hermione's emotional tyranny, Jack was at the forefront of her thoughts. He was like a book: intellectually stimulating, mysterious and unpredictable, adventurous and wholly unique. And then there was the forbidden element - necessary for every good love story, that was the difference in their circumstances, her magical ability, time, and even her career that demanded their divide. How could it end but in disappointment? She wished she could put a bookmark in the story while she sorted out her emotions. The storm served as her bookmark.

Agonized by her cluelessness, Hermione wondered how in Merlin's beard Jack could possibly have fallen for her. How could he, really? She was so often quiet, poised and observing, always asking questions and nose-deep in a book at all times- his total opposite, it seemed. No one else had fallen for her, save for Cormac Mclaggen, who thought more with his lower half than with his brain.

Not to mention, everything she felt for Jack went against her better judgement because of course it would be destructive to love a man when she knew she would have to leave him. And, furthermore, her emotions could taint the product of her studies! She berated herself, fighting off her unintelligible, unnegotiable emotions that were totally and completely sustained despite her every attempt at undoing them.

After the raging storm subsided and all that was left of it were puddles arranged along the deck, Jack was sitting about another evening dinner with his crew when he realized Hermione still hadn't joined them. Concerned, he decided to check on her. Jack rose from his spot beside the fire and made his way to the cabin, inching the door forward with a creaking sound. His eyes scanned the room, but he saw no Hermione.

He did notice, however, that the door to his liquor cabinet was left ajar. Surely, he wasn't drunk enough to do that (and yet, here Hermione claimed to not be their rum thief). He decided by the way the candles hadn't been tended despite sundown, that Hermione and that bottle of rum had been gone for quite some time. His heart pitted in his stomach as fear gripped him and he recalled the crew who shared their perverted ideations only the night before- a potential danger that he had neglected to make her aware of.

"Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger."

He was grim when he left the cabin, his eyes glaring and lethal orbs. He passed the crew with scathing eyes, examining them all thoroughly before turning to the weather deck, where he suspected she might be. His boots sounded heavily when he walked. Looking over the ledge, he was relieved to see her seated on a crate, looking out. He appreciated that her brown curls were unruly in the wind and she didn't seem to mind.

"Oi! You've got a right fine idea, if I don't say so myself, Granger." The captain's telltale voice rang out from above.

She turned to see he leaned coolly against the railing, regarding her with careful ease.

"Mind if I join you, love?"

She inhaled heavily and exhaled disdain, but accepted that she didn't have much option to deny him. "Alright."

Pleased, Jack hopped down from the ledge with a "oop" and wavered over to her. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought him equally drunk. But, no, this was only his personality. "I've got to hand it to you, love." He uncorked his own bottle and waved dust off of the rim. "You've got an eye for booze. That's one of my finest bottles of rum ye got there." He pointed to the bottle she was hiding from him, not because he'd seen it in her hand, but because he hadn't seen it in his cabinet.

"I'm sorry, Jack." She visibly sunk, revealing the bottle. "I've been in such a fog today. I only hoped it would help."

"No, no, you should know that I'm proud of you." He gave her a grand smile, impressed by the fact that she had snuck into his liquor cabinet, chose his best bottle, and downed half of it in a single sitting. He truly admired her newly-revealed deviancy.

She looked up at him incredulously. "What makes you say that?"

"Seeing as great writers and poets are drunken sops, you're well on your way to becoming one."

She turned red, but did not shy away from him. By this gesture alone, he could tell that she was drunk, and he smiled with incredible amusement when she took yet another sip from the bottle and almost fell backwards. Suddenly, his amusement turned weary.

"Oh, fancy that. You're bloody besotted," He remarked sardonically and took her bottle from her hand, then moved to hold her by the arm. "I think it best we get you some water, love." He pulled her up and she cooperated, but standing had an adverse effect, and all of the alcohol seemed to hit her at once. She felt a distinct buzz between her ears and her body seemed to lose its balance because she stumbled toward Jack and she would have knocked them both over if he hadn't caught her first. "Woah, love, take it easy." She was in worse condition than he thought.

She giggled against his chest as he held her upright and he felt anew. Normally, he would take any drunk person, wench or friend or enemy or otherwise, and stash them away somewhere until they recovered on their own, but he had no inclination to do this to Hermione whatsoever. In fact, he dreaded that thought and, instead, wanted to care for her.

He was torn away from his self-reflection when her vanilla scent pierced him and he was brought back to reality where he held her in his arms and he realized his nose was nuzzled in her curly brown hair and she was pressed against him- no. He shook away the thoughts that had taken the forefront of his mind. He needed to take care of her. "Alright, then," he encouraged the both of them, "upsy daisy."

He brought her to his cabin and set her limply on the sofa where she leaned on the arm and studied him through half-lidded eyes as he then brought her bread. "Have a go at this," he said. "You'll thank me later."

She didn't reach out for it as he held it in front of her. Instead, her eyes were fixed on only him. She blinked once, slowly, before reflecting aloud. "I never thought a pirate captain would be so kind to me…" She furrowed her eyebrows. "Why do you become a pirate?"

Pirate? He frowned. He was thankful she was only drunk. Usually having a response to everything, Jack only opened her hand and placed the bread in it. He grabbed himself another bottle and took a swig from it.

"I'm sorry, Jack." She shook her head in an incredibly delayed realization, tracing the embroidery on a pillow with a delicate finger after taking a bite of bread. She needed to keep a more sober lid on her thoughts. "You're not a pirate. I didn't mean that."

"Quite alright, love." Jack sat on the sofa beside her and kicked up his booted feet. "Has its effect on the lot of us."

She then adjusted herself on the couch in order to remove her cloak- the cabin warmed her and so did the alcohol. When she set it aside, she sat up with her legs curled beneath her, leaning into the sofa to face him. Jack averted his eyes at the sight of her sitting in her fitted gown, smelling like vanilla, cheeks rosey from the alcohol. He felt himself pale and sweat, and took another swig to cool his nerves.

"Are you okay, Jack?"

He shivered when she said his name.

"Peachy…"

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to take away your evening. You ought to leave me here and be with your crew. You can trust me to-"

He shook his head and interrupted her. "No, Hermione." He looked into her eyes more seriously than ever. "It's them I don't trust."

"Jack, I hardly believe anyone would-"

He raised his eyebrows. "I appreciate your optimism but understand, love, you've caught the attention of the entire crew, and I will lop their limbs off if they ever lay a hand on you."

"Why?"

He studied her for a long and pensive moment, his eyes piercing and his lips pursed in contemplation of his next words and how much they mattered to him, as though this truth was simultaneously being revealed to himself. "Because I care about you, Hermione."

She gazed at him in realization of the passion in his words and barely recognized her actions before she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his and she felt as though she could melt into the sofa when her efforts were returned.

Jack never could predict her- and never was she more unpredictable than when she leaned in and kissed him in a way that struck him at his core. He kissed her back, his hand moving up to hold her in fear she would pull away but instead, she moved to wrap her arms around him. He was delighted that she also tasted like vanilla and all of the nerves at the surface of his skin were hypersensitive to her touch and it was as though nothing in the world mattered more to him than her in that moment.

To his delight, she broke their kiss only to smile joyously against his lips and resumed the kiss that led him to a feeling of absolute bliss that he'd never before shared with a woman he cared for. His hands shaped into fists and he pulled away from her with labored breath and dark, lust filled eyes before picking her up again to remove her from him.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," his voice was undone, his skin paled. "I - I can't."

"What did I do wrong?" She felt a pang of rejection in her gut that was dizzying.

His heart dropped to see her pained expression. "You are perfect, Hermoine." He emphasised these words before continuing, "But-"

"But what?" She sat back.

"You've been drinking. I'd be a downright bastard like the lot of them..." He spoke quickly and heavily, and appeared much more upset with himself than he was with her.

"Oh. I'm sorry." She sat up, though she grew more timid in her embarrassment.

He stood to leave but she jumped forward and grabbed his hand, and he turned to view her smaller fingers wrapped around his and frowned.

"Please don't go." She shook her head unabashedly. "Not yet. You're the only person I truly feel comfortable with and, goodness," she turned red, "I'm terribly sorry for having kissed you… but please, Jack, don't go."

He sat back with his frown still in place, eyes locked on their joined hands and sighed before his gaze narrowed on her eyes. "Love, what you need now is rest." He retracted his hand carefully and motioned toward the bed. "I promise you - you'll thank me later." He stood and brushed himself off, looking about the room awkwardly before finally rolling his eyes and extending his hand to her.

She took his hand and stood, although she fell back at first, and allowed him to move her toward the bed. She could tell he was uneasy by the way his eyes shifted to look at anything but her.

"Jack." She turned against his arm to face him, "What's the matter?" Hermione knew him well enough to know when he was troubled, and she had never seen him more troubled than this.

His nose twitched in reluctance and he opened his mouth to reply with something witty but instead stopped himself. "You... Hermione." There was a vulnerability in his voice that was revealed when he said her name. "You've vexed me, dear."

"This troubles you." Hermione observed as she sat back on the bed. "Why?" She was still to intoxicated to reasonable filter her thoughts.

Jack frowned again and shut his eyes as if searching inside himself for the answer. When he reopened them, he spoke with some reluctance. "Hermione. I needn't explain meself, but I'll entertain you, love." He let out a heavy sigh. "After this grand _voyage, _what is it you have mapped out for yourself? The way I figure it - and what I'd do if i were you - you'll return to London to publish your manuscript and avoid the life of a lonely spinster by marrying, and a woman of your beauty and fortune must marry well, aye? Not some bloke like me..." He avoided her eyes. "Not some bloke like me."


	11. Changing Tides

There were birds - for the first time in weeks there were birds - and Hermione first regarded them as foreign. In realization of their significance as a sign of their proximity to land, Hermione leaped up from the bed, transfigured her dress from her nightgown, pinned her hair up into a loose bun when she rushed barefooted from the cabin and onto the deck to have a better view. She could barely see from the main deck and so she ventured up the stairs, trailing her hand along the railing as she went, and stopped at the helm where she could make out the greenery and mountains of coastal Africa.

The birds were also circulating the ship, roosting atop the masts to digest their food and occasionally drop an unwelcome gift on a crewmember from above. For this reason, she watched her step and chose to avoid the sails to spare herself from their offenses. From there the world seemed to turn in their direction as land approached them into view and out from the blue was a fantastic vision of greens and yellows. Here the winds were strongest and it only took and hour or more until such lands were within reach. The cliffside was turbulent and menacing, a stark contrast from the dazy and peaceful coastal jungle that lay outstretched beyond the rocky terrace.

"Ever seen the coast here before, Miss Granger?" Billy came to stand by her side, handing her an apple as he often did.

"Thank you," she held it in her hands where she leaned against the rail, "No, I haven't."

"It's a beautiful place. Our last routes have led us here, but only for trading fruit and spices. It's a shame, the new contract."

She sighed and lowered her head in recollection. "I… I can't believe... Jack won't go through with it, will he?" They turned to view the captain who was walking about and tightening lines where they had been secured by the crewmen alongside him.

"Jack is unpredictable, although what can he do, really? Resign? The first mate would be next in line to assume the position and he doesn't wish to be captain. It's an unfortunate circumstance, to be sure, but I can't imagine an alternative that would end in anything even objectively good. They would only replace him and have the same job filled by someone more cruel of heart."

"There must be something he can do, though, right? Perhaps when he meets this 'Mr. Kurtz' he can renegotiate the contract."

"I doubt that. I figure men who sell human beings for a living hardly have time for a captain they don't know to renegotiate his reason for being there. Do you wish to stay with him or the crew during our time on land?"

Hermione tapped her fingernails on the railing in thought when the captain passed to manage the wheel from Gibbs. "I'd prefer to stay aboard the ship and as far away from that business as I possibly can."

"Fair enough, Granger." He nodded in understanding. "Although," he squinted up at the sun, "I doubt the captain would want to leave you behind. He doesn't seem to trust the crew, and I don't blame him, either."

It was midday by the time they made port and Hermione was thankful that Jack could skillfully ease the ship around treacherous reefs and cross-tides where jagged rock would have shipwrecked anyone with less skill. Here, the ocean landscape was menacing, and spikes of sharp coral and rock stuck out from the water like teeth - these obstacles came so close to the hull Hermione could have reached out and touched them.

The ocean was like the tender tint of orient sapphire, diffusing the still reaches of the sky, as far as the horizon was deep and clear, renewed a short sense of delight from their mission that had weighed heavy on her eyes and heart. She followed the dock once the ship had made port, leading down toward land where the waves broke on the shore; where you could find rushes growing in soft sand. No other plant producing leaves or stalk that hardens could survive in such a place- only the reeds that yield to buffering. The plank had begun it's final stretch, descending to the shore below where coarse sands awaited.

Once the ship was secured and cargo unloaded, reloaded and sorted, the sun was nearing the horizon - the highest point whose meridian arc was just above the darkening oceanic abyss. She was still standing at the water's edge, wondering about the road ahead like men whose thoughts go forward while their bodies stay.

"Come one, Hermione," Jack summoned her to join the group that departed on foot. "No time like the present time, I always say."

"I want to stay behind, Jack. I don't like this." She remained facing the ocean, turning her face downward to view the sand that wriggled between her toes when the tide came and went.

He sighed, having been afraid of this. "Hermione, I don't favour this task any more than you do - I promise ye -" he came to face her, standing between her and the setting sun, "It would be a great relief if you'd join me."

"No, I won't. I refuse." She turned to leave and he moved to block her.

"Love, I-" He held her by the arms to merit her attention, "I'll be honest with you, love, I want nothing of this. If you'll come with me just this once, I'll NEVER ask your favour again."

"If this is because you're worried about my safety, rest assured, I'm more likely to cause trouble at the slave-owner's home than here with the crew. Now, if you'll move out of my way, I'm going to stay with Billy." She turned to leave and drudged through the sand to meet him when Jack ran after her.

"I didn't want to have to do this, Hermione, but as Captain of the ship, I insist-"

"As CAPTAIN, then, is that it?"

"I insist. That's an order, love."

"That's rubbish, that's what it is."

"Come on, Granger, before the day is out." He pushed her along.

"Jack, I promise you, I have very strong feelings about slavery and I can't guarantee I'll behave myself."

He leaned in close to her and whispered in her ear. "I'm with you wholeheartedly, love."

When they drudged through the weeds and sand dunes they approached a town so small that the lighthouse was merely a three-legged post erect on a muddy flat, shining barely through an evening fog that loomed. The town smelled pungent with pain and suffering. The entire crew was on edge, Jack the most uneasy as he lead his entourage to the small town. Hermione followed her companions up toward the cliffs that separated the beach from the town, their path led by a set of stairs where the harbormaster greeted her with loose and wandering eyes. Jack noticed this, and began keeping her possessively close.

Behind them darkness was gaining ground, putting to flight the last stretch of daylight. The wooden buildings seemed newly built, unweathered by the forces of coastal nature, and lined by patios and hanging lanterns that lit their path. Tall palm trees loomed overhead, threatening to snatch them up and away, never to return.

Hermione turned a deathly pale when they were passed by humans, each chained to the other; barely clothed. They were enslaved. These souls pushed forward through purgatory as if not caring what awaited them ahead; their eyes glazed over with a depressed fog that seemed to cloud their irises. Among them were men and an occasional woman, bound together. Hermione's heart ached and she had to remind herself to breathe. If Jack hadn't kept her moving, she would have stalled far from her group again.

"Mr. Gibbs, please see that the crew is on their best behavior- although we hope to put this to our rudder and ne'er return, it's best that we be able to leave on our own accord, aye?" Jack was uneasy; his body language was one of reluctance. "Hermione will be my guest at Mr. Kurtz' home and we ought to return in the morning with the... cargo. See to it that everyone is ready and no one wanders off." Jack and the whole entire crew were reflections of the other's solemnity. "Pip, pip, hop to it, lads."

Hermione kept unusually quiet as they approached the carriage that had been sent for them. The driver - a slave- approached and came to open the doors for them with gestures that were quiet and trained.

"Thank you, sir." Was all she could muster to the man before shut the door after they were seated.

Hermione gripped her dress tightly when the carriage jolted forward and a tear fell down her freckled cheek. Jack noticed this and melted.

"I'm terribly sorry, love." He realized he should not have forced her to join him, although he knew she would be the only person who could possibly refrain him from acting out. He would never do anything to endanger her. "Please understand, I-"

"I don't want an explanation, Jack." She avoided his eye contact when she wiped her cheek and only stared out the carriage window as it led them down a dirt road where the forest became more and more dense as darkness fell.

The mansion itself was large, encompassed by an iron gate that resembled prison bars, and decorated with the classic colonial detail that dominated the aristocracy of the age. Candles sat lit in each window, glowing with ominousness and Hermione felt as though she were being brought to hell itself. The carriage halted and Jack moved to open the door. He then exited the carriage and held out his hand for Hermione to follow suit.

The hem of her maroon dress dragged through the grass as they approached the home and Hermione, despite her frustration with Jack, accepted his hand that wound its way into hers. At the top of grandiose steps, they met the front door and before Jack could manage a knock, the door opened and behind it was an enslaved servant.

"How do you do, my fine sir?" Jack tilted his hat to the man but got no response from him whatsoever. The man merely stepped back to reveal a white man clad in a garish vest with distinctly european features.

"Ah, you must be Sparrow. As you are aware, I am John Kurtz," The man greeted Jack with a look of distaste, eyeing him up and down. "I've been expecting you, thanks to word from Cutler Beckett. I was almost afraid to miss the opportunity to begin my trade with the Company. Ah," He noticed Hermione but thought not much of her. "Anyhow, come in, then."

He lead them inside.

"You must be famished - I can't imagine a trip of your duration offers much fine dining among meal arrangements. You'll be pleased to have something of quality while you're here. Oh- and, mi'lady…" He leaned forward and took her hand with a slight bow.

Mr. Kurtz then led them through the foyer and into a parlour that was decorated with the heads of the local wildlife - antelope, wildebeest, and a water buffalo with eyes that seemed to watch their every move and that adorned the grand fireplace that was lined with generations of paintings of men of the Kurtz family line, Mr. Kurtz would tell them proudly. The only break between decor was tall windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and she decided that the entire room was a semblance of business and chaos that unsettled her. Although, Jack kept his cool and made small conversation with the man so that she would be spared from it.

She wandered around, coming to touch a map on the table that was marked: color coded by his exploitations, past and future. When she moved closer to the fireplace, she pushed up the sleeves of her dress and examined the mantle decor. A glass orb set on a pedestal caught her curiosity and she made to pick it up but she jumped when Mr. Kurtz spoke from behind her.

"Uh, uh, uh, we mustn't touch what isn't ours now, shan't we?" He moved to place his arm around her and usher her back to Jack but she shoved his arm away.

"Don't touch me, sir. I'll be happy to move on my own if you would simply say so." She scoffed at him and moved away.

"My, my, isn't she a pleasure, Captain?" The man huffed at her vocal abrasion.

Jack frowned, eyeing Hermione with sympathy for her before diverting Kurtz's attention. "How about a glass of sherry, aye? A toast to our… erm, meeting." Jack helped himself to a bottle that sat on a table nearby and picked two glasses from the shelf. He poured each one with a measured hand. "To Mr. Kurtz…" He smiled weakly, "A… business... man." He handed the glass to the other man and downed his glass before Mr. Kurtz could manage to raise his own.

"Ah, I must say, nothing beats a pint of rum, but I can appreciate this fine sherry..." Jack coughed at the sting of the bitter alcohol. "Sir, it's been a pleasure. Though, I must say, it's been a long voyage and I cannot wait to rest in a bed on land again."

Jack motioned for Hermione to return to him so that they could leave, but Mr. Kurtz grabbed her by the arm to stop her from going. "Nonsense! You've not even eaten, and what kind of host would I be if I let my guests retire hungry?"

Hermione tugged her arm away from him and moved toward Jack.

Mr. Kurtz continued to talk when they kept quiet, "Though, I do apologize, expecting only the captain I've only readied one of my rooms. It seems you will have to share."

"No worries, mate." Jack gave him a smile and fidgeted his fingers.

Before any replies could be made, a servant entered the room to signal that dinner was ready.

"Ah, yes, my friends, the dinner table is all set and readied," He ventured a smile at them and led them from the parlor toward the dining room.

Hermione noted the table with twelve seats that was readied for only three and decided that she felt truly unnerved. On the walls were more paintings than in the room before it, and a mounted zebra's head that crowned the host's chair at the end of the table. It wasn't before long that they were seated and servants filtered into the room bearing silver platters and glasses and bowls of a finer meal than she'd eaten in a month. On their plates were small bird of prey - quail - donned with seasoned greens and potatoes.

"Don't be shy, my guests, eat!" Kurtz urged them. Jack did not need any persuading as he helped himself to his first of many dinner rolls of the evening, but Hermione's appetite failed her. Something was wrong and she knew it.

"Captain," their host regarded him after a sip of wine, "How does a man as young as yourself manage across a title of such prestige?"

Jack cleared his throat before speaking, "I've lived my entire life at sea: since birth, I've not spent more than a month on land at a time. It's suffocating, in my opinion. Nothing like the open ocean - Freedom…"

His final word seemed to reverberate around the room like the echo of a drum.

A servant came around to fill their glasses and Hermione studied the woman closely, observing how unnaturally coordinated her movements were, how she gave little response to stimulus and seems utterly devoid of autonomy. The woman left the room and Hermoine stood from her chair.

"Pardon me, I'll be back." She looked to Jack and then Mr. Kurtz.

"And where might you be off to?" Mr. Kurtz's voice was stern.

"The powder room, sir." Hermione's voice was equally impatient when she turned to leave.

Mr. Kurtz stood up tall, his chair scooting loudly across the floor as he did. "Sparrow, it'd do you some good to teach your woman to ask permission to leave the table." He motioned toward Hermione who stood there incredulously.

"Absolutely not, sir. With all due respect, Hermione is a free woman who can do and say exactly as she wishes." Jack spoke sharply, giving her a dark and impatient expression - a testament of his disdain for the man beside him.

The silence that followed was resounding.

"I'll be right back." She regarded them before leaving.

Hermione exited the room and shut the carved wooden doors behind her, leaning against them in relief. The tension was suffocating. She gathered herself before searching for the enslaved woman and spotted her walking into the parlour.

The woman didn't acknowledge Hermione when she followed into the room soon after and Hermione noticed the woman picking up the glasses of sherry that Jack had shared with Kurtz. Before she spoke to the woman, Hermione's gaze was brought back to the glass orb that sat atop the mantle - the one that Mr. Kurtz did not want her to touch.

Hermione neared it with a measured pace, eyeing the heads on the wall with an uneasy feeling before she reached the mantle and reached out to grab the orb. She pulled it to her closer gaze and watched in awe as the orb seemed to fill itself with a dark red smoke. In shock, she leaped and gasped aloud, accidentally dropping the orb on the floor, which shattered upon impact. Hermione immediately turned to see if the woman was about to rush to tell the homeowner, but was surprised when the woman walked past her without batting an eye.

The red smoke rose up into the air and evaporated without a trace, leaving behind clear crystalline shards on the hardwood floor and Hermione looked around in dizzying realization that it was a remembrall.

"Hey!" Hermione chased after the woman, grabbed her arm and pulled her into view only to see that her eyes were grayed with the unmistakable mark of the imperious curse.


	12. Secrets, Revealed

In the dining room, Jack had commandeered a bottle from Kurtz's table and downed half of it as a means of coping with the lousy conversant Hermione had left him to entertain. Thus, Jack was thrilled when she returned - his eyes lit up and he stood from his chair.

"Miss Granger, what took you so?" Mr. Kurtz seemed happy to have another ear to entertain his dreadful speeches, she gathered. "You missed the excellent story about my latest catch," with a glass in hand, he motioned to the far wall where the zebra head hung on a plaque.

But she was barely listening. Instead, Hermione stood by her chair and held onto the back of it, overwhelmed by everything - feeling dizzy. Her impulses were screaming at her from within to reveal Kurtz as the evil, fraudulent man he was while also trying to rein in reason. She eyed her full plate of food and felt the urge to vomit. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kurtz, despite your… good graces… I regret that I'm not feeling well enough to eat tonight. I've decided to retire early…" She gave Jack a pointed look. "Good night."

Jack's joy fled with oncoming concern when he received her urgency. He knew this behavior was unlike her. Hermione left the room with a hurried pace; one that Jack couldn't ignore. He apologized to Kurtz for their abrupt exit and followed Hermione out from the dining room with haste.

When the door shut behind Jack, Mr. Kurtz downed his beverage with one gulp, his expression grim and knowing. He stretched, shrugging his shoulders in a nervous twitch.

Jack held onto the rail of the staircase as he followed Hermione calmly up the stairs where she had nearly run, shutting herself inside the bedroom swiftly.

After Hermione shut the door she held herself by the arms, whispering a silencing charm that would settle about the room and give her the safety and clarity she needed to gather her thoughts.

"Hermione, love," Jack's voice sounded tenderly from the other side of the door, "Open up for me."

She approached the door, reaching for the handle but pausing to reconsider before finally opening the door to reveal his face in the candlelight where he leaned his face against the door frame, his eyes dark and charming.

"I might be able to help you feel better, doll, if you would only talk with me." He entered, shutting the door gently behind him before brushing a strand of hair from her face, his hand settling on her cheek.

"Jack, I-" she turned away from him, too distraught to appreciate the gesture, "I want to leave, please-" Her voice broke with emotion.

"Why is that?" He narrowed eyes attentively to her as he searched her for answers.

She tried to think of an answer he would accept. "I miss the ship, I wish we didn't have to be here. I don't like it here, I-" She wrung her hands in the air, fighting the part of herself that fought to tell him the truth - the whole truth. "I don't trust him." She started pacing.

"I'm right there with you, love. Hell, he's a right slimy git. How could a man who sells other human beings be trusted?" Jack's expression became somber and he glanced away from her in shame. "But we have to tolerate this task only once, Hermione. I promise you."

He held her reassuringly and his eyes flashed with a look of unmistakable adoration. "I won't let anything happen to you, love."

There was a knock at the door and Hermione fearfully gripped his arms that held her. "Don't let him in." Hermione whispered, meeting his eyes pleadingly. "Please."

Jack let go of her and moved over to the door, opening it only by a few inches. "How can I help you, gentlesir?" Jack offered him an easy smile.

"I couldn't help but notice that the lass broke something from atop my mantle - a family heirloom, in fact. No matter that, however. I came to check on the lady. It shattered, and I want to be sure she is free from injury." Mr. Kurtz pressed his hand against the door to get inside, but Jack held it steady. "Seeing as she fled dinner so early, and all."

"I'll be sure to look her over." Jack gave him another smile, this one more mischievous than the last.

"Nonsense, Captain." He pressed against the door harder, and Jack's mustache twitched as he fought to keep him out. "I insist."

Jack stood back when one hefty shove caused the door to slam open and bounce off of the adjoining wall, and the homeowner entered.

Mr. Kurtz immediately sauntered over to Hermione. "Miss Granger," he began, "There's no reason to be sorry about the broken knick knack." He sighed, "Have you ever seen anything like it?" She backed away, hiding her wand in the back of her dress. "Why don't you me see your hands, girl?"

With reluctance, she let him examine her hands and managed a dark glance at Jack from over Mr. Kurtz's shoulder.

"Why, what's this?"

"Stop." She retracted her left hand when he began to pull back the sleeve of her dress that hid her scar so deliberately.

Mr. Kurtz's demeanor changed completely - he grabbed her arm with both hands despite her cry of protest, shoving the sleeve back in a rough and uncaring gesture that showed his true intentions. His shoulders relaxed when he read the word _mudblood_ that had been etched into her arm.

Jack grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and shoved him back. "That's no way to treat a lady, mate."

"You think I don't know what you are!" He spat on the ground at Hermione, unphased by Jack.

"Leave me alone!" She moved to rush away when Mr. Kurtz grabbed her by the neck and shoved her up against the wall in one swift move.

She was prying at his hands with her own when the feeling of occlumency consumed her and images of her past came to the forefront of her mind. She couldn't fight the memories that flooded her vision: She was on an airplane - looking out from the small window over downtown London that was thousands of feet below, seated beside her parents who coaxed away her anxiety of flying for the first time. The feeling of the plane tilting to the side was accompanied by a sense of butterflies that transitioned into her life a year later - approaching Hogwarts by boat for the very first time, then memories of her running into the arms of Harry and Ron, running from the whomping willow, then Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic that faded into the dementors and spiders of the Battle of Hogwarts that now raged on in her senses. Hermione felt herself falling from the center of the battle and a ringing in her ears replaced the visions when she fell from Mr. Kurtz's grasp and onto the floor of the bedroom.

She looked up to see Jack held a revolver to his head.

Jack extended his free hand to her and hoisted her up, allowing her to lean into him as she caught her breath. His eyes were dark and impatient when he growled through his teeth. "Now..." Jack cocked back the hammer of the pistol, ready. "What is the meaning of this?"

Mr. Kurtz's breathing labored as he studied Hermione. "He doesn't know, does he?"

"Know what?" Jack narrowed his eyes on the man, dangerously pressing the end of the gun into the man's temple.

Kurtz only smiled maniacally.

"Mr. Kurtz - he's cursed everybody." Hermione twisted the story, moving to stand in front of Jack. "Haven't you seen them?"

"No, love, I haven't." Jack didn't break his focus on the man.

"Let's just go. Let's agree to part ways… and no one gets hurt." Hermione tugged at Jack's hand. "Please!" She grew desperate.

"Are you abolitionists?" Mr. Kurtz mused. "Is that why you're here?"

"I'm here on behalf of Cutler Beckett - you know this." Jack wanted to avoid trouble and stashed his weapon.

"Jack, please…" Hermione attempted again to pull him away by the arm.

Before anyone could stop him, Mr. Kurtz unleashed his wand and cast _stupefy_ at Jack, which knocked him unconscious. Hermione grabbed Jack by the waist before he could hit the ground and she apparated away with him, dropping him into a safe place and back upstairs so quickly that she didn't miss a beat. She reappeared behind Kurtz and sent a curse his way, but he deflected.

The man shot a spell back at her and she ducked away, the spell charring a spot on the wallpaper behind her. She rushed from the room and down the stairs when Kurtz cast _relashio_ on the hanging chandelier that then came crashing down. The young witch dove from the middle of the stairs and landed on the hardwood floor with a pained gasp before running outside of the house, the man following close behind.

Hermione didn't have a chance to catch her breath when Mr. Kurtz hit her with a curse, _diffendo_, that slashed an inch-deep gash in her arm. She grabbed her arm and looked back to see he was advancing on her.

"Come here, _mudblood_! Don't worry about your captain. Imagine! Not only will I have an entire trade of my own, but a wage-free merchant captain to manage all shipments…"

A blue spell whizzed past her - the one she suspected was the imperious curse. She picked up the skirt of her dress while she ran, using the other hand to cast _stupefy_ on him, but she missed. He was now chasing her to the edge of the property and toward town. Hermione resolved that no matter what happened, she needed to get him as far away from Jack as possible.

Hermione stopped running and turned around. Kurtz stopped too, surprised her choice to stop and face him.

"What now, mudblood? Giving up so soon?"

Hermione's breathing labored when she spoke, righting her posture with renewed confidence. "No."

She apparated to him and grabbed him, apparating to the wood beyond the grand house but Kurtz attempted to apparate elsewhere, and in the discombobulated magic - the opposing duality in the warping vacuum of space and time - they reappeared, crashing into the window of a building in the town. They wrestled out onto the porch of the building and Kurtz shot a spell at Hermione but missed her as she stood and ran from him, the spell instead catching fire to a building across the street, causing the townfolk to scatter from it in fear.

* * *

When Jack stirred, he had no idea where he was. He reached out to find a cold door handle and turned it only to fall out from the closet and onto the hallway floor, a mop and some brooms clattering on the hardwood around him. "Bugger."

His memory returned to him and he stood up with urgency upon noticing the condition of the house: a broken chandelier that was scattered in pieces around the floor, curtains dangling from their rods and charred spots on the wallpaper from the fight he thought he had only dreampt. His mouth twitched and he took off quickly upon realizing the silence. "Hermione!" He ran upstairs, careful not to step on glass, and saw that the bedroom door was ajar. He burst into the room to find that she and Mr. Kurtz were gone. He ran out from the room and noticed that the front door was left open and the entry rug bent back from a scuffle that moved outside.

Jack knew things were grim when he recognized explosions emanating from the town and after a twitch of his lip, he darted toward the stable on the far size of the property. There, he pulled open the wide, wooden barn doors and found horses inside that appeared to be bewitched - their eyes glazed over with a greyness that he realized he had seen in the slaves, too. Was this the curse Hermione was talking about?

"Allo," Jack greeted the nearest horse. "You seem like a lucky steed, I figure you'll do." He opened the gate and approached the animal with caution, his feet light as he approached the horse's side, petting it a few times before grasping onto its back to hoist himself up. The horse, subdued by spell, didn't so much as sidestep. "On, lassie!" Jack nudged the horse's sides with the heel of his boots, causing the horse to move forward and they exited easily. Once out into the open, Jack gave a loud "Heyah" that encouraged the horse to run toward town with Jack holding on to either side of it's neck.

Jack wished he had remembered the reigns, but he'd never before ridden a horse and with the pressure to find Hermione, didn't stop to consider this detail. As the horse took the dirt path through the woods and toward the town, Jack didn't look back once - not even when his captain's hat fell off behind him.


	13. Revelio

Jack came toward town and dismounted his horse but it kept its pace, running through the fires that ravaged the town.

After landing expertly on his feet, he squinted, shielding his eyes with his hand as surrounding structures boomed with bursts of fire as though by cannon - or magic.

_Magic_.

Jack parted his linen shirt where Kurtz had knocked him unconscious but found nothing unusual - only feeling slight residual discomfort that could also have been digestion.

Jack kicked a stone across the ground, walking without aim. "Jack, lets go back to the ship." He mocked Hermione's voice before following with his own, "Oh, I'd bloody go now!"

Jack halted when he noticed a figure standing behind a screen of smoke. "Bugger." Jack knew by the unflattering shape that it wasn't Hermione. He stayed still, searching the area to evaluate an escape with quick and clever eyes. When he looked to the figure again, it was gone and he felt a chill down his spine.

"Sparrow!"

Jack leapt a whole foot in the air.

"Where is Miss Granger?" It was Donovan.

Jack rolled his eyes at his annoying familiarity. "You really ought not to creep up on captains that are… armed and deadly." Jack placed a hand on his pistol in show of dominance. "Why are you looking for Hermione?" His expression of jealousy shifted into one of urgency. "Have you seen her? Is she safe?"

"I was asking you that, Jack." Donovan pulled Jack away from the open. "Something is happening. I think, I think Mr. Kurtz is magical." He avoided divulging Hermione's own magic.

"Yes, yes, he fucking got me right in the center and next thing, I fall out of a bloody broom cupboard. Why couldn't it have been a wine cellar, for crying out loud? Arrant nonsense."

A noise sounded that caught their attention, alerting them to a tin lid that rolled oddly into the open from behind a nearby building, wobbling against the cold dirt ground as it slowed to a stop.

—————————————————————

A zap, a whirl and a twirl later Hermione spun around the building where a flare of red dust clouded the street corner to aid her disappearance like a magician from the stage. This allowed her to catch her breath.

She turned to find a set of vines ascending the brickside and her palms were sweaty as she gripped her wand while climbing it to the clay-gabled rooftop where the palm trees hung low enough to hide her, if only for a moment.

From this place she took in the scene below: Kurtz scoured the wreckage for her through an utter mess of broken glass and breaks of clay and wood where whole structures had been hit by their exchange, bags of wheat and barley marked by the EIC were now barely recognizable after having been blown to shreds, and the buildings where the townsfolk had been were now littered with their rushed abandon - only for flame and fire to take their place. Kurtz ushered his frustration through the windows as if they were red-painted targets.

Hermione gathered herself, willing herself to focus and plan. But what about Jack? Was he okay?

When Kurtz moseyed out of view yelling obscenities directed at her, she stashed her wand into her dress and maneuvered back down the vines but clashed with the ground poorly - a set of iron tools that had been leaning against a shed on the side of the building clattered to the ground with little to no regard for the urgency of silence. In fact, the reverberation of a tin lid rolling out into the open was enough to catch Kurtz's ear.

"Granger!" He shouted as he walked through a stash of burning barrels, the fire of their surroundings reflective in his eyes as he marched toward her, and sent a spell her way that was red in color. It struck the ground as she rolled away from it and shut her eyes, wincing at the painful reminder of the gash on her arm from his earlier offense.

She mustered the energy to raise her arm and cast a white burst of light that resembled lightning in form, color and function, throwing him back, effectively electrocuted. This bought her time to stand, as he lay on the ground steaming.

"Where do I get me one of those?" Jack observed with wide eyes, but moved quickly toward Hermione as she sunk to her knees. "Come, Donovan."

Hermione busied herself with her beaded bag, rummaging through it to find the vial of dittany she swore she brought. "Merlin." She huffed, glancing at her wound only to view Jack and Donovan approaching her.

"What are you- stop!" Hermione protested as they each grabbed an arm of hers and dragged her into hiding. "Let me go, I can walk, you bastards!"

"Woah, love, easy." Jack said once they had propped her up against the nearest wall, and she attempted to stand but they held her back again. "We're here to help."

"You can help by leaving. Go to the ship - get as far away from here as possible." Her breathing was labored.

"Or not." Jack lamented. "Say, give me this and-"

"No." Hermione held her wand close when Jack moved to grab it. "You don't know how it works."

Hermione visibly panicked when Kurtz stood and the men observed her fear with a newfound determination.

"I bet I do." Donovan snatched it from her while she was distracted. "Trust me, Hermione!" He took off toward Kurtz.

"No!" Hermione stood to chase after him, but Jack restrained her. "Jack, I swear, I'll -"

"You'll what, love? The fight stick is gone." He tried to reason with her.

Kurtz brushed himself off when he realized he had a new opponent. "Where is the girl? She took everything from me!"

"She's safe - from you." Donovan challenged him with a flick of the wand that created a small spark that was much less threatening than he'd hoped.

Seeing this, Hermione expertly maneuvered from Jack's grip and apparated between the duel, leaving Jack to stare with wide, kohl-lined eyes as she disappeared and reappeared in the blink of an eye.

Kurtz welcomed the challenge and aimed his first spell at Hermione, who resisted his curse mid-air using only her hands. She summoned a rounded shield that covered both her and Donovan from Kurtz' attack.

"Get back!" Her eyes were scathing as she commanded he leave the danger.

"No, ma'am. My place is here."

"Get the captain to safety, he's the only one who can…" she strained to keep up the shield as Kurtz shot spell after spell at it, weakening her. "... Who can get us all out of here. Ready the ship."

Donovan stepped out from behind Hermione's force field and aimed the wand at Kurtz, who noticed this, and took aim at him.

"Stop!" Hermione yelled in anguish, pulling her Time Turner from the bosom of her dress with a plan to bring time to a standstill, but was forced to watch the green light emerge from the end of Kurtz's wand, as if in slow motion, and travel midair through the dust, debris, and eventually Donovan's body that crashed to the ground faster than Hermione could reach him.

She ran to Donovan and collapsed on him with tears forming in the corner of her eyes to blur the vision of his lifeless face. She let out an audible sob before taking her wand from Donovan's hand and standing up once more, turning to find Kurtz's pleased expression.

They stood in the street, poised like a proper duel. Hermione raised her wand before she realized that it had split down the centre.

She couldn't disguise the defeated expression that crossed her and she dropped her wand to the ground - a mere paperweight. Her face contorted with a fierce frown as she mustered an energy that she had never before felt.

"He was just a boy!" Hermione's eyes seemed to change color in her rage as the tingling in her body consumed her. She raised her hands as if to tear off the tin roofs of the buildings that surrounded them, and the metal pieces popped off from their hinges and nails before Hermione threw them at him, one by one.

He deflected them with a gesture from his wand, and so Hermione summoned a wooden cart from behind him that knocked into him from behind, leaving him on the ground in a pile of splintered wood. Hermione came to stand in front of him.

"Stand up." She demanded, but he only looked up at her from below so as to avoid obedience. "I said stand up!"

She lifted him in the air using only wandless magic and threw him across the road with a single gesture. He landed on the ground with an audible groan.

Kurtz sat up, dusting off his ornate vest and wiping blood off of his lower lip with the back of his hand. "Not even a wand, huh, Granger?" He spat on the ground when Hermione approached. "Tell me… how did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Time travel. How is it that you can do all of this and be from the future?"

"I have my ways." Hermione replied shortly.

"And the captain doesn't know?"

She had forgotten about Jack in all the madness. She glanced around for him, a newfound urgency washing over her.

Jack, observing from afar, hadn't yet decided whether or not to come out from hiding. No, no, he wasn't a coward - he simply knew his disadvantage and planned accordingly.

"Enough!" She yelled at Kurtz, sensing the diversion he was creating. "You - what you are doing here is abhorrent. The magic you are performing to run your business is Unforgivable. And, now, you've killed someone." She stood tall. "As a member of Magical Law Enforcement community I, acting within my rights as an unspeakable, will deliver you to the proper magical authorities. But first, you will free all of the people you've enslaved." She was tired, but refused to let it show.

"Magical authorities? Pah! Maybe in the future you have such intricacies, but I'm afraid here, you are without. And, even i can't undo their curse. So long as I'm alive, their curse will be too." His smile was bloody and shook her to the core.

His wand was hidden from her view when he hit her with a spell that knocked her to the ground. Seeing stars, she faded in and out of consciousness.

"Oí!"

Hermione turned her head just enough to see through half-lidded eyes as Jack's peered up from behind a nearby barrel, barely visible.

"Hey, hey - put that down." Jack crouched down again. "I'm not magic!"

Kurtz lowered his wand. "So you care for the girl, do you? Why else would you choose now to come out from hiding?"

"Leave her alone." Jack stood up, prepared to fight.

"What will you do?" Kurtz chuckled, "Stab me? Oh, I promise, I can do much worse." He pointed his wand at Hermione.

"No! No! Stop. I… we haven't even begun our negotiations… Why fight to the death when you can win with wise words, eh? You're an intellectual man - let's hash this out, man to man… Resolve this like gentlemen. Aye?" Jack coaxed the wizard's attention away from Hermione as she tried to pull herself up. Jack's dark eyes were wide and passionate in the firelight. "No swords or… magical wooden sticks necessary for us adversaries."

"Okay. Begin your proposal." Kurtz looked beside Hermione, his wand aimed threateningly at her as she lay on the ground struggling to stay awake.

"I think we-"

"As it turns out, Sparrow, there is nothing that you can offer me that will save her life. But you can still save yours." His voice was dense. "Leave my town. Ne'er return."

"Not without her." Jack stood his ground.

"Do you even know what she is?" Kurtz seemed amused.

"No. And I don't care." Jack pulled back the hammer of his pistol in warning. "Back away from her."

When Kurtz took aim at Hermione who lay unconscious, Jack pulled the trigger.

Kurtz stumbled back after being shot in the chest. "You shot me, filthy pirate!" He pulled apart his vest to reveal the wound that dripped with blood.

"Ironic, innit?" Jack mused. Jack stooped over as Kurtz fell, gasping for breath. "The magic man with all the wealth, killed by a lowly, working sailor… I like it. And, didn't you say that if you die, the people are freed? Well, let's just say I won't offer you the same kindness Miss Hermione did."

The second gunshot echoed through what remained of the town, seemingly shaking the palm trees as a wind blew with new direction.


	14. Fitzwilliam P Dalton III

By the time the ship was untied from the dock, the skies were grey with early morning sun and the smoke rolled off the town into a fog that hid their escape. Jack bid a quiet goodbye to the birds that chimed them off.

"Jack, let's get out of here for god's sake." Gibbs approached him at the starboard side after ensuring the last of the supplies had been stowed. He noticed Jack was quieter and more pensive than ever.

"I couldn't agree with you more, mate. Lower the sails and bring in the lines, let's make way in as timely a fashion as possible." Jack made his way up the stairs to the helm.

"What happened back there, Jack?" Billy came to the bottom of the stairwell. 

The captain didn't budge. "How much do you know?"

Billy frowned. "Not much. Donovan is dead, the slaves have been freed. But how?"

"Mr. Kurtz, the man we were contracted to work for, magically cursed the local people into submission and intended to sell them accordingly. Hermione was uneasy about the whole matter, as was I, of course, and he knew this, I figure, because next thing I knew, everyone was fighting and I was locked in a bloody broom closet!"

"How was the curse lifted, Jack?"

The captain's eyes reverted and he muttered between chewing his fingernails. "I killed him."

"Jack, do you realize that murder is—? Selling slaves isn't criminal, but killing a man is. For all we know, the hangman's noose will be readied for our return!" Billy yelled, catching the attention of the crew and there was a flash of panic in Jack's eyes when he realized they were listening.

"No one knows how he died, Mr. Turner, and I think it best we keep it that way, aye? There was a rebellion, the whole town in blazes, and the good people have their land back; their freedom restored. A hundred of them, at least. That's what matters - that's our story. Print it out." Jack tried to be optimistic enough for all of them.

Billy looked around at the crew who had gathered around. "One more thing, Cap'm."

Jack leaned forward expectantly.

"One of the crewmen ran off. Abraham."

"Oh I couldn't stand that sop. We're better off without him, Billy… Did you run a search party?"

"A small one, sir, but we came up empty-handed."

"See, we tried. What are you waiting for, men, let's get a bloody move on!" Jack waved his hands in the air to shoo them off as he finally made his way at the helm, holding a spoke of the wheel and wiped a bead of nervous sweat from his brow.

————————————————

"Be still, Hermione. It'll hurt less."

Mr. Granger held his daughter's arm with a large hand and applied gentle pressure with astringent with the other, causing Hermione to scrunch her nose tightly, as though she were a sponge that could dissolve the stinging sensation that left her arm throbbing with pain. She wiped a tear with her small hand.

"Thank you." She sniffled when the sting subsided, studying the long cut across her arm. "I'll be more careful."

"You can always expect a fall or two when you're learning your bike." Her father's smile was warm and comforting. "As long as you get back up, that's what matters. Now, one more, okay my brave girl?"

Hermione nodded for him to continue.

He applied pressure with the rag soaked in alcohol that burned when it was pressed against her open cut.

————————————————-

Hermione jolted up from the bed with a cry as the rag was placed against her open wound. Upon her eyes' first opening, she recognized the captain's cabin, and the captain seated beside her in his blouse, his sleeves rolled back to keep from getting them wet from the rag and washbasin. His eyes spoke patience as he put a gentle hand against her forehead, laying her back against the pillow.

"Take it easy, love."

She was then overwhelmed by exhaustion and despite a pounding headache and the fact that her body felt as heavy as lead she was, for a moment, at peace.

From where she rested against the pillow she observed Jack while he continued diligent work on her arm. His shirt was still orange with dirt, but his hands were clean, aside from a show of hard work beneath his fingernails. She noted his face that was focused on his task: eyebrows furrowed, and kohl-lined eyes set upon her.

"What happened?" She became overwhelmed at her memory of the night. "How did we get back? I'm - I'm so sorry I didn't get us out of there." She looked away.

"You were unconscious. I shot the bastard and killed him. The people are free. And you, Hermione, haven't a thing to worry your pretty head about."

"But Donovan is dead - it's all my fault." She started to sit up again but he put his hands on her to keep her there.

"Love, you must rest. I don't know what that bastard did to you but I-" he stopped when he recognized a growl in his voice. "Rest, to air on the side of caution." He visibly retreated, his lips pressed in a firm line. "But I must ask. What happened? How can you do those" he waved his hand in the air, "things?"

Hermione averted her eyes for a moment, though his didn't budge from her. "It's magic, yes. I, I was born with it. I studied it. I know how to manage it safely." She assured him, assuming he might consider locking her in the brig indefinitely.

"And the boy?"

"The same. Though, he hasn't practiced. He didn't know how to control it."

"And Mr. Kurtz?"

She nodded grimly to which he didn't reply. Instead, he was consumed by thought. She continued, his silence overbearing to her. "I'm sorry I kept it from you, but you must understand the need for secrecy. You can't tell anyone. Please, I beg you." She sat up and this time he didn't stop her.

"Why should I trust you?" His words were merited but nonetheless crippling.

"Because… I've never crossed you, and I wouldn't. I would only use it in self-defense, as I have before." She could feel herself crumbling, stumbling over words in a panic that she'd never felt. "I would never do anything to hurt you, Jack. I care about you...r crew."

He pursed his lips but his eyes remained serious. He wrapped the wound in a bandage but left the sleeve of her shirt up. "You need to rest. Stay here." He stood, gathering his supplies, and that's when Hermione spotted it.

"Wait." She stopped him, reaching for his arm and she tugged him back down. He complied and waited patiently as she sat up in the bed and retrieved a clean rag.

Their eyes locked for a moment before she dabbed the cloth in the watery basin and applied it to a cut on the side of his face. He flinched at her first touch, but not because it stung.

"I'm sorry, I'll be gentle."

"You are gentle." He replied with a silky voice, and noticed her cheeks reddened and she averted her eyes from his gaze, focusing on the small wound.

She didn't even recognize his hand out of the corner of her eye until it touched her cheek and she stopped to find his gaze was piercing. If at all possible, her cheeks reddened further. He pulled her face to his and placed his lips overtop hers, a thumb caressing her cheek after she began to reciprocate. He treasured the texture of her lips and the taste of vanilla that drove him wild. His world seemed to spin when she leaned further into him, deepening the kiss. A small groan escaped their lips when his hands began to wander up and down her hips and waist just as before but this time he didn't pull away.

Instead, he crawled over her and intertwined his hands in hers. Their breathing labored and Hermione had never experienced anything more intense, and she felt a longing for him that she'd never fully accepted until now. He growled her name and his eyes rolled back as a single hand trailed up her side and up to touch her neck, exploring the nook of her collarbone along the way.

The entire time, Hermione was screaming inside. Whether it was because of the great emotions he brought out of her or because her rationality fought against it, she was twisted internally for many reasons.

"Jack." She said his name and he met her eyes with his intense ones. "Please." She pulled away. "I don't want to move too quickly, I-"

"Trust me, love. I'll never do anything to hurt you." He soothed, burying his face in her neck and sowing soft kisses that gave her chills. She bit her lip, fighting against the part of her that wanted him to touch her even more, but she was afraid. It was when his hand traveled along her pantleg to caress her thigh, then maneuvered under her shirt that she jolted back and grabbed his wandering hand.

"I'm not ready." She shook her head and Jack pulled away, brushing back her wild curls using his fingers. Her cheeks were flushed pink and Jack decided she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, even though he preferred her in a dress. He could only manage an adoring smile and his mouth opened to speak but couldn't form a syllable before the cabin doors swung open without warning.

"Cap'n! Colours! From the East." Upon entering, Gibbs stopped in his tracks upon seeing the captain laying with Hermione.

"What the bloody hell is the meaning of this?" Jack seemed angry as he stood from the bed and approached his first mate.

Gibbs hushed his voice as though it would subdue the captain's panic. "Cap'n, the Royal Navy is upon us, sir."

"Abraham. The bloody rat!" Jack leapt from the bed and stormed toward his effects that were laid on the nearby table and shrugged them on with urgency. Gibbs left to attend to the crew and make ready for conflict, or so that's what Hermione heard him say.

"Battle?" Hermione interjected.

"Prepare for the worst, hope for the best." He placed his hat on his head with assurance, giving her a clever wink before leaving the cabin.

"But, Jack, you can negotiate," Hermione followed behind him, her gown trailing along the each step as she pursued him up the stairwell toward the helm, "Tell them the truth, they are the navy, after all \- we're all on the same side. I can vouch for you."

"Bitter truth, love: There are more grey areas at sea than you think." His eyes narrowed out to view the ship that followed them, decorated, indeed, with the colors of the English navy. 

"Heave to and prepare to be boarded!" Jack bellowed from the helm. The first mate echoed the captain's commands to frantic sailors at the front of the ship, scrambling to unfurl a frontward sail in order to gather more wind speed. The sail flapped and tossed as Gibbs and Billy fought to tie the line down at the railing, but the wind was too sporadic. The sun was about to be enveloped in rain clouds that looked so heavy that they could break at any moment. No gust was straight nor true, causing the sail to lose wind as quickly as it caught it. The captain saw this and knew that one more hand was needed.

"Hermione!" Jack called out to her.

"What can I do, Jack?" She approached, craning her neck to see that the British ship was gaining on them.

"Steer." Before she could protest he had pushed her to the wheel by the small of her back and left.

"No, no, JACK!" She had no idea how to steer a ship. The wheel controlled the rudder at the bottom, right? Or was it the boom? But it was too late. He had already rolled up his sleeves and was heaving the sail alongside his comrades, reining in and eventually tacking the sail tightly to the railing, bracing himself with his foot against the rail, securing it tightly. Hermione attempted to hold the ship steady as the ferocity of the waves increased only, this time, not at all by her influence.

"Mother's love, Jack, what have we done?" Gibbs was also the first to realize that the British ship was not a trading vessel or even a small naval operative, but instead a large warship; one that could easily overtake the Wench, a sitting duck compared to the pirate ships she was probably used to combating.

"Give the Wench a chance, Gibbs." Jack remarked, casual but nervous. He rubbed his hands together to soothe the rope burns that had printed on his hands.

"Since when was luck ever a sailor's fighting chance? And in this rain? Not to mention, we're now short of hands. We'll need the Gods." Gibbs turned to leave, exasperated, barking orders at the crew.

Jack returned to Hermione at the helm, who had barely turned the wheel since he left her there. She only held her steady. "Mighty well done, 'Mione." He gave her a smile before accepting the wheel from her again. He began to turn the ship sharply around after calling out "hard to starboard!", the following movements causing Hermione to lose her balance and fall to the deck, much like the crew who also hit the wooden ground with a thud as the ship turned violently. "All hands to the main irons!"

"Jack, we can't fight her!" Billy ran to the helm, his eyes flashing in fear. The look in Jack's eyes told him he was dealing with a madman. "We're honest sailors, honestly! I don't figure my wife will fancy widowhood much, Jack!"

"Don't worry about death right now, my friend. Worry about your life, it's all you've got. It's all we've bloody got! The British Navy is upon us." Jack bellowed out to the crew, "Now, we can be taken like sitting ducks or we can catch her by surprise and stand a fighting chance. Aye?!"

"Only more will come, Jack!" Hermione ran to his side. "You- we can't take them."

There was a cloud on his horizon. A small dark cloud with a barreling, purple underbelly. From it, lightning struck the ocean that began to churn with righteous indignation. The good fight was not yet won.

"Could this be a trap, Captain?" Billy hollered through squinted eyes as thick rain now fell from the sky.

"Are you kidding? I was raised by bloody pirates. I think everything could be a trap, which is why I'm still alive." He grinned widely as the last of the sun crossed from one side of the sail to the other, the ship now turned around almost completely. "Hermione, barricade yourself in my cabin."

"No. I'm staying here. I can fight, you know I can." She defended, her hair now wet from the rain.

He neglected the wheel for a moment and grabbed her arms in order to yield her full attention.

"Hermione, I need you to listen to me, just this time. I will not lose you." Was all he said, but her defiant stare rejected his order again. Without warning, he bent down and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Billy, man the helm."

Jack carried her, despite her protest, down the stairs and into his cabin. He promptly threw her on his bed. She bounced back up immediately, chasing after him but it was without avail. He turned around and grabbed her by the wrists.

"Let go of me!" She fought him but his grip was stronger.

He held her still. "You'll be safe in here, love."

"I can defend myself and you, too." She argued as he let go of one of her wrists, pulling her toward the desk as he went and opened a drawer, retrieved something from inside, and brought her over to the bed.

"You'll give yourself away and doom us all, that's what you'd do. You see, love, perhaps I can negotiate ourselves out of last night's fiasco, but I can't negotiate saving a witch. Best keep your secret, as you said yourself." Jack locked something cold around her wrist and she didn't recognize what he'd done until he raised that arm and secured the other shackle to the bedpost.

"You know I can get out of this." She raised her brow at him.

"Yes, but I figure it'll keep you occupied long enough for me to secure the door," he planted a kiss on her cheek and gave her a sly wink that made her blood boil before he left once again and proceeded to lock her in from the outside with a sword strung through the exterior doorhandles.

She tugged on the iron shackle a moment, seeing if she could slip her hand out of it but the ship rocked violently as it turned once more, the furniture scraping across the floorboards and Hermione felt herself dangling sideways from the bedpost. The wooden ship creaked dangerously as it did.

"Fuck!" She complained and concentrated on alohamora, working successfully without her wand, falling hard on the ground when it released her. 

She ran to the door, tugged on the handles and banged on the door with her fists after attempting alohamora, but it was to no avail: it was not just locked. She was stuck. If only the British ship was still behind them, she could watch the progression of events from out the windows, but with the Wench now headed toward battle, Hermione was agonized by her cluelessness.

_________________________

"Stash your weapons and prepare to be boarded! We have but one chance, gents, and I expect your full compliance." Jack commanded his crew, pacing about the deck, watching as the battleship neared them. "We likely won't win a battle of arms, seeing as none of you are trained in combat whatsoever, thus, let the captain do the speaking and follow my lead - aye?"

"Jack, this is madness." Billy shook his head, earning a glare from the captain.

"Might save your life." Was Jack's cold reply. "We are sailors - there was a slave rebellion and we are escaping the town. Simple as that."

"But what about Abraham, sir? What do ye reckon he's told them?" Gibbs placed his arms on his hips. "And Granger, why did you lock her up? Don't ye think they'll find that a wee bit suspicious?"

"Nonetheless, Master Gibbs, lettin' 'er out would be a mistake." Jack's tone changed.

"God's mother, Jack, this isn't all because of her, is it?" Gibbs measured the captain with hesitant eyes.

"No \- 'Course not." Jack frowned. "Now get back to work, the lot of ye! Act natural and trust the process, and all that."

The rain slowed to a sprinkle when the opposing ship neared, the front sail came up behind the Wench before it came parallel to it. Each ship lowered its sails and dropped its anchors, and a plank was lowered from the larger Naval vessel for the navy men to board one by one, taking armed formation along the deck while Jack and his crew waited in anticipation for the other captain to come aboard.

Jack recognized the silhouette of an admiral cross the plank and approached him.

"Well, well, if it isn't Johnathan Teague. Are you a Captain now, really?" The Admiral jested to Jack whose face turned dark with a scowl.

"Fitzy, its been a long time, hasn't it?" Jack played with his old adversary, but didn't lose his frown. "I go by Sparrow, officially. Captain Jack Sparrow - full title."

The Admiral scoffed. "Let me guess, you couldn't escape your father's shadow? Is that why you're," he chuckled his condescension, "a merchant captain? Say, isn't this one of the ships belonging to the Beckett family? The Wicked Wench?"

"I was contracted by Cutler Beckett, yes. And let me guess," Jack mocked him, "You or your dad couldn't manage to capture my father after all these years? Anyway, lets leave our dads and old times behind us - might we conduct ourselves in a more ruly setting? Discuss things like adults? Or have you not grown, Fitsy?"

"Do you have any idea who you're talking to?" The Admiral charged him.

"With." Jack corrected him.

"Excuse me?"

"Talking with \- I'm talking with you, not to you - this is an exchange." Jack teased the Admiral, but recognized he'd gotten off track and was not on his way to saving his skin. "Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure of your carbuncle?"

"You know very well my reason for being here, Teague - Sparrow." The Admiral corrected himself. "A member of your crew claims to have witnessed the murder of one of our nearby noblemen, a Mr. John Kurtz? Does the name strike you?"

"It rings a bell, yes." Jack crossed his arms.

"Your sailor, Abraham, is aboard my ship. Says you murdered the man and freed his slaves that you were contracted to transport. Thus, with much joy, I place you and your vessel in the custody of the King's navy."

"Oí!" Jack called out to the sailors who moved to arrest them. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Is that a threat, Sparrow?"

"Not in the slightest, Fitsy, but I should make you aware that my crew and I have done no wrong. I witnessed this murder firsthand, as well as or better than dear Abraham did, and I can tell you all about it if we could manage a private setting to discuss and allow me to defend my honor - and the honor of my crew." Jack hid nervousness with a cool gaze.

"The brig would be as good a place as any." The Admiral spoke with a long face and waved for his men to move. "Arrest them."

"Admiral Dalton," Billy stepped out from the crowd but was stopped by the men in uniforms. "Please allow Jack to explain himself."

"Ah," The man approached Billy, "William Turner - Still sailing under Sparrow, then? You still look seventeen - you both do."

"Sir, nevermind that you betrayed us - dear William and I - as kids, but as adults allow us to conversate as such, defend our dignity." Jack reasoned with him while attempting to bury old anger.

"You? Sparrow? Dignity?" The Admiral turned to leave, but stopped when he saw a sword wedged through the cabin doors. "What is this?" He started to move toward the doors. "What are you still standing around for? Arrest them!"

Jack moved to evade the navymen's grasp but they managed to grab him by the shoulders and force him to his knees.

Before the Admiral proceeded to remove the sword from the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of fists banging against the door and the voice of a distraught woman. He withdrew the sword and opened the doors, causing Hermione to stumble forward mid-hit. "Jack Sparrow I swear I'll-" She had said before she fell forward, but caught herself before she hit the ground.

"What is this?" The Admiral gazed at her in great curiosity, noting she was wearing men's shirt and pants, turning to look at Jack before back at Hermione who stood up.

"What's going on - who are you?" Hermione moved back but it wasn't before the man grabbed her by the arm where Jack had bandaged her wound. She cried out and Jack struggled from the sailors' hold.

"Madam, I am Fitzwilliam P. Dalton the Third, Admiral of the King's Royal Naval Services of West Africa." His face was charming, but rigid, and he wasn't much older than Jack and herself. His face was clean shaven and his eyes were green - yet there was something about him that was unsettling and she couldn't quite place it. "Who are you?"

"Hermione Granger. Of the Granger family. London." Afraid of saying too much, she kept her words brief. To her relief, he released her.

"My apologies, Miss." He stood tall, leaning forward to take her hand. "I'm sorry to inform you that this ship is now in the custody of my command, as well as your Captain and adjoining crew. But, rest assured, you're already in safer hands."


End file.
